-A 


£2, 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


s 


The  River  and  I 


By 

John  G.  Neihardt 

Author  of  "A  Bundle  of  Myrrh,"  "  Man-Song,"  el 


With  50  Illustrations 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New   York  and   London 

Cbe  IRnicherbocfccr  press 

1910 


Copyright,  1910 

BY 

JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 


ttbe  ftnfcberbocfeer  pveee,  Hew  J£>orft 


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Ho 

MY   MOTHER 


1259712 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic  .         i 

II. — Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  33 

III. — Half-way  to  the  Moon     ...       60 

IV. — Making  a  Getaway            .         .  .106 

V. — Through  the  Region  of  Weir  .  .     131 

VI. — Getting  Down  to  Business       .  .172 

VII. — On  to  the  Yellowstone    .         .  .     207 

VIII. — Down  from  the  Yellowstone   .  .     260 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


NlGHT  IN  CAMP         .....      Frontispiece 

"Off  on  the  Perilous  Floods"    . 

"Barriers  Formed  before  him"  . 

The  Boats  Wrecked  in  an  Ice  Gorge 

After  the  Spring  Break-up 

Black  Eagle  Falls 

Great  Falls  from  Cliff  above    . 

Great  Falls  from  the  Front 

Old  Fort  Benton  in  the  7o's 

"This  Was  Benton"    . 

The  Ruins  of  Fort  Benton  . 

The  House  of  the  Bourgeois 

A  Round-up  Outfit  on  the  March 

Joe 

Montana  Sheep  .... 
A  Montana  Wool-Freighter 
The  "Atom  I"  under  Construction 
The  Cable  Ferry  Towed  us  out 
Laid  up  with  a  Broken  Rudder  . 


5 

9 

13 

17 
37 
45 
49 
63 
69 

73 
77 
81 

89 

93 

97 

101 

121 

127 


viii  Illustrations 


Wolf  Point,  the  First  Town  in  Five  Hun- 
dred Miles   .... 


PAGE 


Typical  Rapids  on  Upper  Missouri      .  149 

"  Hole-in-the- Wall  "   Rock  on  Upper  Mis- 
souri   155 

The  Palisades  of  the  Upper  Missouri  .     159 

Fresh  Meat!        .         .         .         .         .  .167 

Supper!        .          .          .          .          .          .  •      177 

Night  in  Camp     .         .         .         .         .  .183 


189 

195 
213 
217 
221 


Night  on  the  Upper  Missouri 

The  Entrance  to  the  Bad  Lands 

"Walking"  Boats  over  Shallows 

Reveille!    ..... 

"  Atom  "  Sailing  up-stream  in  a  Head- Wind       225 

Typical  Upper  Missouri  River  Reach  .     229 

A  String  of  Assiniboine  Pearls!.  .         .     233 

An  Assiniboine  Indian  Chief       .         .         .     237 

An  Assiniboine  Indian  Camp         .         .         .     241 

The  Pen  and  Key  Ranch      ....     245 

On  the    Hurricane  Deck  of   the  "Expan- 
sion"; Capt.  Marsh  Third  from  the  Left    251 


Illustrations  ix 

PAGE 

Crane  Creek  Irrigation  Dam,  up  the  Yellow- 
stone River           .....  255 

Steamboat     "Expansion"  on  the  Yellow- 
stone   .......  263 

Fort  Union  in  1837      .         .         .         .         .  267 

The  Site  of  Old  Fort  Union        .  .  .271 

Deapolis,  N.  D.,  the  Site  of  Old  Fort  Clark  .  285 

Washburn,  North  Dakota  ....  289 

The  Landing  at  Bismarck,  N.  D.           .         .  293 

The  Boats  Laid  up  for  the  Winter  at  Wash- 
burn, N.  D.  .          .         .         .         .         .  297 

Roosevelt's  Ranch  House;  now  in  Posses- 
sion of  the  North  Dakota  Historical 

Society  at  Bismarck     ....  301 

Moonlight    on    the    Missouri    below   the 

Yellowstone         .....  305 

Meeting  a  Steamboat  in  Mid-Stream    .         .  309 

The  Mouth  of  the  James  River  .         .         -313 

The  Yankton  Landing  in  the  Old  Days       .  317 

"Atom  II"  Landing  at  Sioux  City        .         .  321 


THE  RIVER  AND  I 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    RIVER    OF    AN    UNWRITTEN    EPIC 

TT  was  Carlyle — was  it  not? — who  said  that 
all  great  works  produce  an  unpleasant  im- 
pression, on  first  acquaintance.  It  is  so  with 
the  Missouri  River.  Carlyle  was  not,  I  think, 
speaking  of  rivers;  but  he  was  speaking  of 
masterpieces — and  so  am  I. 

It  makes  little  difference  to  me  whether  or 
not  an  epic  goes  at  a  hexameter  gallop  through 
the  ages,  or  whether  it  chooses  to  be  a  flood 
of  muddy  water,  ripping  out  a  channel  from 
the  mountains  to  the  sea.  It  is  merely  a 
matter  of  how  the  great  dynamic  force  shall 
express  itself. 

I  have  seen  trout  streams  that  I  thought 


2  The  River  and  I 

were  better  lyrics  than  I  or  any  of  my  fellows 
can  ever  hope  to  create.  I  have  heard  the 
moaning  of  rain  winds  among  mountain  pines 
that  struck  me  as  being  equal,  at  least,  to 
Adonais.  I  have  seen  the  solemn  rearing  of  a 
mountain  peak  into  the  pale  dawn  that  gave 
me  a  deep  religious  appreciation  of  my  signi- 
ficance in  the  Grand  Scheme,  as  though  I  had 
heard  and  understood  a  parable  from  the  holy 
lips  of  an  Avatar.  And  the  vast  plains  of  my 
native  country  are  as  a  mystic  scroll  unrolled, 
scrawled  with  a  cabalistic  writ  of  infinite 
things. 

In  the  same  sense,  I  have  come  to  look 
upon  the  Missouri  as  more  than  a  river.  To 
me,  it  is  an  epic.  And  it  gave  me  my  first  big 
boy  dreams.  It  was  my  ocean.  I  remember 
well  the  first  time  I  looked  upon  my  turbulent 
friend,  who  has  since  become  as  a  brother  to 
me.  It  was  from  a  bluff  at  Kansas  City.  I 
know  I  must  have  been  a  very  little  boy, 
for  the  terror  I  felt  made  me  reach  up  to 
the  saving  forefinger  of  my  father,  lest  this 
insane  devil-thing  before  me  should  suddenly 
develop  an  unreasoning  hunger  for  little  boys. 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic       3 

My  father  seemed  as  tall  as  Alexander — and 
quite  as  courageous.  He  seemed  to  fear 
it  almost  not  at  all.  And  I  should  have  felt 
little  surprise  had  he  taken  me  in  his  arms 
and  stepped  easily  over  that  mile  or  so  of 
liquid  madness.  He  talked  calmly  about  it — 
quite  calmly.  He  explained  at  what  angle 
one  should  hold  one's  body  in  the  current,  and 
how  one  should  conduct  one's  legs  and  arms 
in  the  whirlpools,  providing  one  should  swim 
across. 

Swim  across!  Why,  it  took  a  giant  even  to 
talk  that  way !  For  the  summer  had  smitten 
the  distant  mountains,  and  the  June  floods 
ran.  Far  across  the  yellow  swirl  that  spread 
out  into  the  wooded  bottom-lands,  we  watched 
the  demolition  of  a  little  town.  The  siege  had 
reached  the  proper  stage  for  a  sally,  and  the 
attacking  forces  were  howling  over  the  walls. 
The  sacking  was  in  progress.  Shacks,  stores, 
outhouses,  suddenly  developed  a  frantic  de- 
sire to  go  to  St.  Louis.  It  was  a  weird  retreat 
in  very  bad  order.  A  cottage  with  a  garret 
window  that  glared  like  the  eye  of  a  Cyclops, 
trembled,  rocked  with  the  athletic  lift  of  the 


4  The  River  and  I 

flood,  made  a  panicky  plunge  into  a  conven- 
ient tree;  groaned,  dodged,  and  took  off 
through  the  brush  like  a  scared  cottontail. 
I  felt  a  boy's  pity  and  sympathy  for  those 
houses  that  got  up  and  took  to  their  legs  across 
the  yellow  waste.  It  did  not  seem  fair.  I 
have  since  experienced  the  same  feeling  for  a 
jack-rabbit  with  the  hounds  a-yelp  at  its  heels. 

But — to  swim  this  thing!  To  fight  this 
cruel,  invulnerable,  resistless  giant  that  went 
roaring  down  the  world  with  a  huge  uprooted 
oak  tree  in  its  mouth  for  a  toothpick!  This 
yellow,  sinuous  beast  with  hell-broth  slaver- 
ing from  its  jaws!  This  dare-devil  boy-god 
that  sauntered  along  with  a  town  in  its  pocket, 
and  a  steepled  church  under  its  arm  for  a 
moment's  toy!     Swim  this? 

For  days  I  marvelled  at  the  magnificence  of 
being  a  fullgrown  man,  unafraid  of  big  rivers. 

But  the  first  sight  of  the  Missouri  River  was 
not  enough  for  me.  There  was  a  dreadful 
fascination  about  it — the  fascination  of  all 
huge  and  irresistible  things.  I  had  caught 
my  first  wee  glimpse  into  the  infinite;  I  was 
six  years  old. 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic       7 

Many  a  lazy  Sunday  stroll  took  us  back  to 
the  river;  and  little  by  little  the  dread  became 
less,  and  the  wonder  grew — and  a  little  love 
crept  in.  In  my  boy  heart  I  condoned  its 
treachery  and  its  giant  sins.  For,  after  all, 
it  sinned  through  excess  of  strength,  not 
through  weakness.  And  that  is  the  eternal 
way  of  virile  things.  We  watched  the  steam- 
boats loading  for  what  seemed  to  me  far 
distant  ports.  (How  the  world  shrinks!)  A 
double  stream  of  ' '  roosters ' '  coming  and  going 
at  a  dog-trot  rushed  the  freight  aboard;  and 
at  the  foot  of  the  gang-plank  the  mate  swore 
masterfully  while  the  perspiration  dripped 
from  the  point  of  his  nose. 

And  then — the  raucous  whistles  blew. 
They  reminded  me  of  the  lions  roaring  at  the 
circus.  The  gang-plank  went  up,  the  hawsers 
went  in.  The  snub  nose  of  the  steamer 
swung  out  with  a  quiet  majesty.  Now  she 
feels  the  urge  of  the  flood,  and  yields  herself 
to  it,  already  dwindled  to  half  her  size.  The 
pilot  turns  his  wheel — he  looks  very  big  and 
quiet  and  masterful  up  there.  The  boat 
veers  round ;  bells  jangle.     And  now  the  engine 


8  The  River  and  I 

wakens  in  earnest.  She  breathes  with  spurts 
of  vapor ! 

Breathed?  No,  it  was  sighing;  for  about  it 
all  clung  an  inexplicable  sadness  for  me — the 
sadness  that  clings  about  all  strong  and  beauti- 
ful things  that  must  leave  their  moorings  and 
go  very,  very  far  away.  (I  have  since  heard 
it  said  that  river  boats  are  not  beautiful!) 
My  throat  felt  as  though  it  had  smoke  in  it. 
I  felt  that  this  queenly  thing  really  wanted 
to  stay;  for  far  down  the  muddy  swirl  where 
she  dwindled,  dwindled,  I  heard  her  sobbing 
hoarsely. 

Off  on  the  perilous  flood  for  "faerie  lands 
forlorn"!  It  made  the  world  seem  almost 
empty  and  very  lonesome 

And  then  the  dog-days  came,  and  I  saw 
my  river  tawny,  sinewy,  gaunt  —  a  half- 
starved  lion.  The  long  dry  bars  were  like 
the  protruding  ribs  of  the  beast  when  the 
prey  is  scarce,  and  the  ropy  main  current 
was  like  the  lean,  terrible  muscles  of  its  back. 

In  the  spring  it  had  roared;  now  it  only 
purred.  But  all  the  while  I  felt  in  it  a  dread- 
ful economy  of  force,  just  as  I  have  since  felt 


BARRIERS    FORMED    BEFORE   HIM 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     n 

it  in  the  presence  of  a  great  lean  jungle-cat 
at  the  zoo.  Here  was  a  thing  that  crouched 
and  purred — a  mewing  but  terrific  thing. 
Give  it  an  obstacle  to  overcome — fling  it 
something  to  devour;  and  lo!  the  crushing 
impact  of  its  leap ! 

And  then  again  I  saw  it  lying  very  quietly 
in  the  clutch  of  a  bitter  winter — an  awful 
hush  upon  it,  and  the  white  cerement  of  the 
snow  flung  across  its  face.  And  yet,  this 
did  not  seem  like  death;  for  still  one  felt  in  it 
the  subtle  influence  of  a  tremendous  person- 
ality. It  slept,  but  sleeping  it  was  still  a 
giant.  It  seemed  that  at  any  moment  the 
sleeper  might  turn  over,  toss  the  white  cover 
aside  and,  yawning,  saunter  down  the  val- 
ley with  its  thunderous  seven-league  boots. 
And  still,  back  and  forth  across  this  heavy 
sleeper  went  the  pigmy  wagons  of  the  farmers 
taking  corn  to  market ! 

But  one  day  in  March  the  far-flung  arrows 
of  the  geese  went  over.  Honk!  honk!  A 
vague,  prophetic  sense  crept  into  the  world 
out  of  nowhere — part  sound,  part  scent,  and 
yet  too  vague  for  either.     Sap  seeped  from  the 


12  The  River  and  I 

maples.  Weird  mist-things  went  moaning 
through  the  night.  And  then,  for  the  first 
time,  I  saw  my  big  brother  win  a  fight! 

For  days,  strange  premonitory  noises  had 
run  across  the  shivering  surface  of  the  ice. 
Through  the  foggy  nights,  a  muffled  inter- 
mittent booming  went  on  under  the  wild 
scurrying  stars.  Now  and  then  a  staccato 
crackling  ran  up  the  icy  reaches  of  the  river, 
like  the  sequent  bickering  of  Krags  down  a 
firing  line.  Long  seams  opened  in  the  dis- 
turbed surface,  and  from  them  came  a 
harsh  sibilance  as  of  a  line  of  cavalry  unsheath- 
ing sabres. 

But  all  the  while,  no  show  of  violence — 
only  the  awful  quietness  with  deluge  po- 
tential in  it.  The  lion  was  crouching  for 
the  leap. 

Then  one  day  under  the  warm  sun  a  boom- 
ing as  of  distant  big  guns  began.  Faster  and 
louder  came  the  dull  shaking  thunders,  and 
passed  swiftly  up  and  down,  drawling  into 
the  distance.  Fissures  yawned,  and  the 
sound  of  the  grumbling  black  water  beneath 
came  up.     Here  and  there  the  surface  lifted 


V 


BOATS   WRECKED  IN  AN  ICE  GORGE 
13 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     15 

— bent — broke    with    shriekings,    groanings, 
thunderings.     And  then 

The  giant  turned  over,  yawned  and  got  to 
his  feet,  flinging  his  arms  about  him!  Barri- 
ers formed  before  him.  Confidently  he  set 
his  massive  shoulders  against  them — smashed 
them  into  little  blocks,  and  went  on  singing, 
shouting,  toward  the  sea.  It  was  a  glorious 
victory.  It  made  me  very  proud  of  my  big 
brother.  And  yet  all  the  while  I  dreaded 
him — just  as  I  dread  the  caged  tiger  that  I 
long  to  caress  because  he  is  so  strong  and  so 
beautiful. 

Since  then  I  have  changed  somewhat, 
though  I  am  hardly  as  tall,  and  certainly 
not  so  courageous  as  Alexander.  But  I 
have  felt  the  sinews  of  the  old  yellow  giant 
tighten  about  my  naked  body.  I  have  been 
bent  upon  his  hip.  I  have  presumed  to  throw 
against  his  Titan  strength  the  craft  of  man. 
I  have  often  swum  in  what  seemed  liquid 
madness  to  my  boyhood.  And  we  have  be- 
come acquainted  through  battle.  No  friends 
like  fair  foes  reconciled ! 

And  I  have  lain  panting  on  his  bars,  while 


16  The  River  and  I 

all  about  me  went  the  lisping  laughter  of  my 
brother.  For  he  has  the  strength  of  a  god, 
the  headlong  temper  of  a  comet;  but  along 
with  these  he  has  the  glad,  mad,  irresponsi- 
ble spirit  of  a  boy.  Thus  ever  are  the  epic 
things. 

The  Missouri  is  unique  among  rivers.  I 
think  God  wished  to  teach  the  beauty  of  a 
virile  soul  fighting  its  way  toward  peace — 
and  His  precept  was  the  Missouri.  To  me, 
the  Amazon  is  a  basking  alligator;  the  Tiber 
is  a  dream  of  dead  glory;  the  Rhine  is  a 
fantastic  fairy-tale;  the  Nile  a  mummy, 
periodically  resurrected;  the  Mississippi,  a 
convenient  geographical  boundary  line;  the 
Hudson,  an  epicurean  philosopher. 

But  the  Missouri — my  brother — is  the 
eternal  Fighting  Man! 

I  love  all  things  that  yearn  toward  far 
seas:  the  singing  Tennysonian  brooks  that 
flow  by  "Philip's  farm"  but  "go  on  forever"; 
the  little  Ik  Walton  rivers,  where  one  may 
"study  to  be  quiet  and  go  a-fishing"!  the 
Babylonian  streams  by  which  we  have  all 
pined  in  captivity;  the  sentimental  Danubes 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     19 

which  we  can  never  forget  because  of  "that 
night  in  June";  and  at  a  very  early  age  I 
had  already  developed  a  decent  respect  for 
the  verbose  manner  in  which  the  "waters 
come  down  at  Lodore." 

But  the  Missouri  is  more  than  a  sentiment — 
even  more  than  an  epic.  It  is  the  symbol  of 
my  own  soul,  which  is,  I  surmise,  not  unlike 
other  souls.  In  it  I  see  flung  before  me  all 
the  stern  world-old  struggle  become  materi- 
alized. Here  is  the  concrete  representation 
of  the  earnest  desire,  the  momentarily  frus- 
trate purpose,  the  beating  at  the  bars,  the 
breathless  fighting  of  the  half-whipped  but 
never-to-be-conquered  spirit,  the  sobbing  of 
the  wind-broken  runner,  the  anger,  the  mad- 
ness, the  laughter.  And  in  it  all  the  unweary- 
ing urge  of  a  purpose,  the  unswerving  belief  in 
the  peace  of  a  far  away  ocean. 

If  in  a  moment  of  despair  I  should  reel  for 
a  breathing  space  away  from  the  fight,  with 
no  heart  for  battle-cries,  and  with  only  a 
desire  to  pray,  I  could  do  it  in  no  better 
manner  than  to  lift  my  arms  above  the  river 
and  cry  out  into  the  big  spaces:  "You  who 


20  The  River  and  I 

somehow  understand — behold  this  river!  It 
expresses  what  is  voiceless  in  me.  It  prays 
for  me ! ' ' 

Not  only  in  its  physical  aspect  does  the 
Missouri  appeal  to  the  imagination.  From 
Three  Forks  to  its  mouth — a  distance  of  three 
thousand  miles — this  zigzag  watercourse  is 
haunted  with  great  memories.  Perhaps  never 
before  in  the  history  of  the  world  has  a  river 
been  the  thoroughfare  of  a  movement  so 
tremendously  epic  in  its  human  appeal,  so 
vastly  significant  in  its  relation  to  the  de- 
velopment of  man.  And  in  the  building 
of  the  continent  Nature  fashioned  well  the 
scenery  for  the  great  human  story  that  was  to 
be  enacted  here  in  the  fulness  of  years.  She 
built  her  stage  on  a  large  scale,  taking  no 
account  of  miles;  for  the  coming  actors  were 
to  be  big  men,  mighty  travellers,  intrepid 
fighters,  laughers  at  time  and  space.  Plains 
limited  only  by  the  rim  of  sky;  mountains 
severe,  huge,  tragic  as  fate;  deserts  for  the 
trying  of  strong  spirits;  grotesque  volcanic 
lands  —  dead,  utterly  ultra-human  —  where 
athletic   souls   might   struggle   with   despair; 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     21 

impetuous  streams  with  their  rapids  terrible 
as  Scylla,  where  men  might  go  down  fighting: 
thus  Nature  built  the  stage  and  set  the  scenes. 
And  that  the  arrangements  might  be  complete, 
she  left  a  vast  tract  unfinished,  where  still 
the  building  of  the  world  goes  on — a  place 
of  awe  in  which  to  feel  the  mighty  Doer  of 
Things  at  work.  Indeed,  a  setting  vast  and 
weird  enough  for  the  coming  epic.  And  as  the 
essence  of  all  story  is  struggle,  tribes  of  wild 
fighting  men  grew  up  in  the  land  to  oppose 
the  coming  masters;  and  over  the  limitless 
wastes  swept  the  blizzards. 

I  remember  when  I  first  read  the  words 
of  Vergil  beginning  Ubi  tot  Simois,  "where 
the  Simois  rolls  along  so  many  shields  and 
helmets  and  strong  bodies  of  brave  men 
snatched  beneath  its  floods."  The  far-see- 
ing sadness  of  the  lines  thrilled  me;  for  it 
was  not  of  the  little  stream  of  the  ALneid 
that  I  thought  while  the  Latin  professor 
quizzed  me  as  to  constructions,  but  of  that 
great  river  of  my  own  epic  country  —  the 
Missouri.  Was  I  unfair  to  old  Vergil,  think 
you?     As  for  me,  I  think  I  flattered  him  a 


22  The  River  and  I 

bit!  And  in  this  modern  application,  the 
ancient  lines  ring  true.  For  the  Missouri 
from  Great  Falls  to  its  mouth  is  one  long 
grave  of  men  and  boats.     And  such  men! 

It  is  a  time-honored  habit  to  look  back 
through  the  ages  for  the  epic  things.  Modern 
affairs  seem  a  bit  commonplace  to  some  of  us. 
A  horde  of  semi-savages  tears  down  a  town 
in  order  to  avenge  the  theft  of  a  faithless 
wife  who  was  probably  no  better  than  she 
should  have  been — and  we  have  the  Iliad. 
A  petty  king  sets  sail  for  his  native  land, 
somehow  losing  himself  ten  years  among  the 
isles  of  Greece — and  we  have  the  Odyssey. 
(I  would  back  a  Missouri  River  "rat"  to 
make  the  same  distance  in  a  row  boat  within 
a  month!)  An  Argive  captain  returns  home 
after  an  absence  of  ten  years  to  find  his  wife 
interested  overmuch  in  a  trusted  friend  who 
went  not  forth  to  battle;  a  wrangle  ensues; 
the  tender  spouse  finishes  her  lord  with  an 
axe — and  you  have  the  Agamemnon.  (To- 
day we  should  merely  have  a  sensational 
trial,  and  hysterical  scareheads  in  the  news- 
papers.)    Such  were  the  ancient  stories  that 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     23 

move  us  all — sordid  enough,  be  sure,  when 
you  push  them  hard  for  facts.  But  time  and 
genius  have  glorified  them.  Not  the  deeds, 
but  Homer  and  ^Eschylus  were  great. 

We  no  longer  write  epics — we  live  them. 
To  create  an  epic,  it  has  been  said  somewhere, 
the  poet  must  write  with  the  belief  that  the 
immortal  gods  are  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

We  no  longer  prostrate  ourselves  before 
the  immortal  gods.  We  have  long  since  dis- 
covered the  divinity  within  ourselves,  and 
so  we  have  flung  across  the  continents  and 
the  seas  the  visible  epics  of  will. 

The  history  of  the  American  fur  trade 
alone  makes  the  Trojan  War  look  like  a  Punch 
and  Judy  show!  and  the  Missouri  River  was 
the  path  of  the  conquerors.  We  have  the 
facts — but  we  have  not  Homer. 

An  epic  story  in  its  essence  is  the  story  of 
heroic  men  battling,  aided  or  frustrated  by 
the  superhuman.  And  in  the  fur  trade  era 
there  was  no  dearth  of  battling  men,  and 
the  elements  left  no  lack  of  superhuman 
obstacles. 

I  am  more   thrilled  by  the  history  of  the 


24  The  River  and  I 

Lewis  and  Clark  expedition  than  by  the  tale 
of  Jason.  John  Colter,  wandering  three 
years  in  the  wilderness  and  discovering  the 
Yellowstone  Park,  is  infinitely  more  heroic 
to  me  than  Theseus.  Alexander  Harvey 
makes  ^Eneas  look  like  a  degenerate.  It  was 
Harvey,  you  know,  who  fell  out  with  the 
powers  at  Fort  Union,  with  the  result  that 
he  was  ordered  to  report  at  the  American  Fur 
Company's  office  at  St.  Louis  before  he  could 
be  reinstated  in  the  service.  This  was  at 
Christmas  time— Christmas  of  a  Western 
winter.  The  distance  was  seventeen  hun- 
dred miles,  as  the  crow  flies.  "Give  me  a 
dog  to  carry  my  blankets,"  said  he,  "and 
by  God  I  '11  report  before  the  ice  goes  out!" 
He  started  afoot  through  the  hostile  tribes 
and  blizzards.  He  reported  at  St.  Louis 
early  in  March,  returning  to  Union  by  the 
first  boat  out  that  year.  And  when  he  ar- 
rived at  the  Fort,  he  called  out  the  man  who 
was  responsible  for  the  trouble,  and  quietly 
killed  him.  That  is  the  stern  human  stuff 
with  which  you  build  realms.  What  could 
not  Homer  do  with  such  a  man?     And  when 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     25 

one  follows  him  through  his  recorded  career, 
even  Achilles  seems  a  bit  ladylike  beside  him! 
The  killing  of  Carpenter  by  his  treacherous 
friend,  Mike  Fink,  would  easily  make  a  whole 
book  of  hexameters — with  a  nice  assortment 
of  gods  and  goddesses  thrown  in.  There 
was  a  woman  in  the  case — a  half-breed. 
Well,  this  half-breed  woman  fascinates  me 
quite  as  much  as  she  whose  face  "launched  a 
thousand  ships  and  burnt  the  topless  towers 
of  Ilium"!  In  ancient  times  the  immortal 
gods  scourged  nations  for  impieties;  and,  as  we 
read,  we  feel  the  black  shadow  of  inexorable 
fate  moving  through  the  terrific  gloom  of 
things.  But  the  smallpox  scourge  that  broke 
out  at  Fort  Union  in  1837,  sweeping  with 
desolation  through  the  prairie  tribes,  moves 
me  more  than  the  storied  catastrophes  of  old. 
It  was  a  Reign  of  Terror.  Even  Larpen- 
teur's  bald  account  of  it  fills  me  with  the 
fine  old  Greek  sense  of  fate.  Men  sickened 
at  dawn  and  were  dead  at  sunset.  Every 
day  a  cartload  or  two  of  corpses  went  over 
the  bluff  into  the  river;  and  men  became 
reckless .    Larpenteur  and  his  friend  j  oked  daily 


26  The  River  and  I 

about  the  carting  of  the  gruesome  freight. 
They  felt  the  irresistible,  and  they  laughed 
at  it,  since  struggle  was  out  of  the  question. 
Some  drank  deeply  and  indulged  in  hysterical 
orgies.  Some  hollowed  out  their  own  graves 
and  waited  patiently  beside  them  for  the 
hidden  hand  to  strike.  At  least  fifteen 
thousand  died  —  Audubon  says  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand;  and  the  buffalo  in- 
creased rapidly  —  because  the  hunters  were 
few. 

Would  not  such  a  story  —  here  briefly 
sketched — move  old  Sophocles? 

The  story  of  the  half-breed  woman — a 
giantess — who  had  a  dozen  sons,  has  about  it 
for  me  all  the  glamour  of  an  ancient  yarn. 
The  sons  were  free-trappers,  you  know,  and, 
incidentally,  thieves  and  murderers.  (I  sus- 
pect some  of  our  classic  heroes  were  as  much !) 
But  they  were  doubtless  living  up  to  the 
light  that  was  in  them,  and  they  were  game 
to  the  finish.  So  was  the  old  woman;  they 
called  her  "the  mother  of  the  devils."  Trap- 
pers from  the  various  posts  organized  to 
hunt  them  down,  and  the  mother  and  the  sons 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     27 

barricaded  their  home.  The  fight  was  a 
hard  one.  One  by  one  the  "devils"  fell 
fighting  about  their  mother.  And  then  the 
besieging  party  fired  the  house.  With  all 
her  sons  wounded  or  dead,  the  old  woman 
sallied  forth.  She  fought  like  a  grizzly  and 
went  down  like  a  heroine. 

A  sordid,  brutal  story?  Ah,  but  it  was  life! 
Fling  about  this  story  of  savage  mother-love 
the  glamour  of  time  and  genius,  and  it  will 
move  you,  believe  me! 

And  the  story  of  old  Hugh  Glass!  Is  it 
not  fateful  enough  to  be  the  foundation  of  a 
tremendous  ^Eschylean  drama?  A  big  man 
he  was — old  and  bearded.  A  devil  to  fight, 
a  giant  to  endure,  and  an  angel  to  forgive! 
He  was  in  the  Leavenworth  campaign  against 
the  Aricaras,  and  afterward  he  went  as  a 
hunter  with  the  Henry  expedition.  He  had  a 
friend — a  mere  boy — and  these  two  were  very 
close.  One  day  Glass,  who  was  in  advance 
of  the  party,  beating  up  the  country  for  game, 
fell  in  with  a  grizzly ;  and  when  the  main  party 
came  up,  he  lay  horribly  mangled  with  the 
bear  standing  over  him.     They  killed  the  bear, 


28  The  River  and  I 

but  the  old  man  seemed  done  for ;  his  face  had 
all  the  features  scraped  off,  and  one  of  his 
legs  went  wobbly  when  they  lifted  him. 

It  was  merely  a  matter  of  one  more  man 
being  dead,  so  the  expedition  pushed  on, 
leaving  the  young  friend  with  several  others 
to  see  the  old  man  under  ground.  But  the 
old  man  was  a  fighter  and  refused  to  die, 
though  he  was  unconscious:  scrapped  stub- 
bornly for  several  days,  but  it  seemed  plain 
enough  that  he  would  have  to  let  go  soon. 
So  the  young  friend  and  the  others  left  the 
old  man  in  the  wilderness  to  finish  up  the 
job  by  himself.  They  took  his  weapons  and 
hastened  after  the  main  party,  for  the 
country  was  hostile. 

But  one  day  old  Glass  woke  up  and  got  one 
of  his  eyes  open.  And  when  he  saw  how 
things  stood,  he  swore  to  God  he  would  live, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  killing  his  false  friend. 
He  crawled  to  a  spring  near  by,  where  he 
found  a  bush  of  ripe  bull-berries.  He  waited 
day  after  day  for  strength,  and  finally  started 
out  to  crawl  a  small  matter  of  one  hundred 
miles  to  the  nearest  fort.     And  he  did  it,  too! 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     29 

Also  he  found  his  friend  after  much  wandering 
— and  forgave  him. 

Fancy  ^Eschylus  working  up  that  story 
with  the  Furies  for  a  chorus  and  Nemesis 
appearing  at  intervals  to  nerve  the  old  hero! 

And  Rose  the  Renegade,  who  became  the 
chief  of  a  powerful  tribe  of  Indians!  And 
Father  de  Smet,  one  of  the  noblest  figures  in 
history,  carrying  the  gospel  into  the  wilder- 
ness! And  Le  Barge,  the  famous  pilot,  whose 
biography  reads  like  a  romance!  In  the  his- 
tory of  the  Missouri  River  there  were  hun- 
dreds of  these  heroes,  these  builders  of  the 
epic  West.  Some  of  them  were  violent  at 
times;  some  were  good  men  and  some  were 
bad.  But  they  were  masterful  always.  They 
met  obstacles  and  overcame  them.  They 
struck  their  foes  in  front.  They  thirsted 
in  deserts,  hungered  in  the  wilderness,  froze 
in  the  blizzards,  died  with  the  plagues,  and 
were  massacred  by  the  savages.  Yet  they 
conquered.  Heroes  of  an  unwritten  epic! 
And  their  pathway  to  defeat  and  victory  was 
the  Missouri  River. 

If  you  wish  to  have  your  epic  spiced  with 


3©  The  River  and  I 

the  glamour  of  kings,  the  history  of  the  river 
will  not  fail  you;  for  in  those  days  there 
were  kings  as  well  as  giants  in  the  land. 
Though  it  was  not  called  such,  all  the  blank 
space  on  the  map  of  the  Missouri  River 
country  and  even  to  the  Pacific,  was  one 
vast  empire  —  the  empire  of  the  American 
Fur  Company;  and  J.  J.  Astor  in  New  York 
spoke  the  words  that  filled  the  wilderness 
with  deeds.  Thus  democratic  America  once 
beheld  within  her  own  confines  the  paradox 
of  an  empire  truly  Roman  in  character. 

Here  and  there  on  the  banks  of  the  great 
waterway — an  imperial  road  that  would  have 
delighted  Caesar — many  forts  were  built. 
These  were  the  ganglia  of  that  tremendous 
organism  of  which  Astor  was  the  brain.  The 
bourgeois  of  one  of  these  posts  was  virtually 
proconsul  with  absolute  power  in  his  terri- 
tory. Mackenzie  at  Union — which  might 
be  called  the  capital  of  the  Upper  Missouri 
country — was  called  "King  of  the  Missouri." 
He  had  an  eye  for  seeing  purple.  At  one 
time  he  ordered  a  complete  suit  of  armor 
from  England ;  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  have 


The  River  of  an  Unwritten  Epic     31 

medals  struck,  in  true  imperial  fashion,  to  be 
distributed  among  his  loyal  followers. 

Far  and  wide  these  Western  American  kings 
flung  the  trappers,  their  subjects,  into  the 
wilderness.  Verily,  in  the  unwritten  "Miss- 
ouriad"  there  is  no  lack  of  regal  glamour. 

The  ancients  had  a  way  of  making  vast 
things  small  enough  to  be  familiar.  They 
made  gods  of  the  elements,  and  natural 
phenomena  became  to  them  the  awful  acts 
of  the  gods. 

These  moderns  made  no  gods  of  the  ele- 
ments— they  merely  conquered  them!  The 
ancients  idealized  the  material.  These  mod- 
erns materialized  the  ideal.  The  latter 
method  is  much  more  appealing  to  me — an 
American  —  than  the  former.  I  love  the 
ancient  stories;  but  it  is  for  the  modern  mar- 
vellous facts  that  I  reserve  my  admiration. 

When  one  looks  upon  his  own  country  as 
from  a  height  of  years,  old  tales  lose  something 
of  their  wonder  for  him.  It  is  owing  to  this 
attitude  that  the  prospect  of  descending  the 
great  river  in  a  power  canoe  from  the  head 
of  navigation  gave  me  delight. 


32  The  River  and  I 

Days  and  nights  filled  with  the  singing  and 
muttering  of  my  big  brother !  And  I  would  need 
only  to  close  my  eyes,  and  all  about  me  would 
come  and  go  the  ghosts  of  the  mighty  doers — 
who  are  my  kin.  Big  men,  bearded  and  pow- 
erful, pushing  up  stream  with  the  cordelle  on 
their  shoulders!  Voyageurs  chanting  at  the 
paddles!  Mackinaws  descending  with  pre- 
cious freights  of  furs!  Steamboats  grunting 
and  snoring  up  stream!  Old  forts  sprung  up 
again  out  of  the  dusk  of  things  forgotten,  with 
all  the  old  turbulent  life,  where  in  reality 
to-day  the  plough  of  the  farmer  goes  or  the 
steers  browse!  Forgotten  battles  blowing  by 
in  the  wind!  And  from  a  bluff's  summit,  here 
and  there,  ghostly  war  parties  peering  down 
upon  me — the  lesser  kin  of  their  old  enemies — 
taking  a  summer's  outing  where  of  old  went 
forth  the  fighting  men,  the  builders  of  the 
unwritten  epic! 


CHAPTER  II 


SIXTEEN  MILES  OF  AWE 


/^VUR  party  of  three  left  the  railroad  at 
Great  Falls,  a  good  two-days'  walk 
up  river  from  Benton,  the  head  of  Missouri 
River  navigation,  to  which  point  our  boat 
material  had  been  shipped  and  our  baggage 
checked. 

A  vast  sun-burned  waste  of  buffalo-grass, 
prickly  pears,  and  sagebrush  stretched  before 
us  to  the  north  and  east ;  and  on  the  west  the 
filmy  blue  contour  of  the  Highwoods  Moun- 
tains lifted  like  sun-smitten  thunder  clouds  in 
the  July  swelter.  One  squinting  far  look,  how- 
ever, told  you  that  these  were  not  rain  clouds. 
The  very  thought  of  rain  came  to  you  with  the 
vagueness  of  some  birth -surviving  memory  of 
a  former  time.  You  looked  far  up  and  out 
to  the  westward  and  caught  the  glint  of  snow 
on    the    higher    peaks.     But    the    sight    was 


33 


34  The  River  and  I 

unconvincing;  it  was  like  a  story  told  without 
the  "vital  impulse."  Always  had  these 
plains  blistered  under  this  July  sun;  always 
had  the  spots  of  alkali  made  the  only  white- 
ness; and  the  dry  harsh  snarl  and  snap  of  the 
grasshoppers'  wings  had  pricked  this  torrid 
silence  through  all  eternity. 

A  stern  and  pitiless  prospect  for  the  amateur 
pedestrian,  to  be  sure;  for  we  devotees  of  the 
staff  and  pack  have  come  to  associate  pedes- 
trianism  with  the  idyllic,  and  the  idyllic 
flourishes  only  in  a  land  of  frequent  showers. 
Theocritus  and  prickly  pears  are  not  com- 
patible. Yet  it  was  not  without  a  certain 
thrill  of  exaltation  that  we  strapped  on  our 
packs  and  stretched  our  legs  after  four  days 
on  the  dusty  plush. 

And  though  ahead  of  us  lay  no  shady, 
amiably  crooked  country  roads  and  bosky 
dells,  wherein  one  might  lounge  and  dawdle 
over  Hazlitt,  yet  we  knew  how  crisscross 
cattle-trails  should  take  us  skirting  down  the 
river's  sixteen  miles  of  awe. 

Five  hundred  miles  below  its  source,  the 
falls   of   the   Missouri   begin   with   a  vertical 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  35 

plunge  of  sixty  feet.  This  is  the  Black  Eagle 
Falls,  presumably  named  so  by  Lewis  and 
Clark  and  other  explorers,  because  of  the 
black  eagles  found  there. 

With  all  due  courtesy  to  my  big  surly 
grumbling  friend,  the  Black  Eagle  Falls,  I 
must  say  that  I  was  a  bit  disappointed  in 
him.  Oh!  he  is  quite  magnificent  enough, 
and  every  inch  a  Titan,  to  be  sure;  but  of 
late  years  it  seems  he  has  taken  up  with 
company  rather  beneath  him.  First  of  all, 
he  has  gone  to  work  in  a  most  plebeian,  almost 
slave-like  fashion,  turning  wheels  and  making 
lights  and  dragging  silly  little  trolley  cars 
about  a  straggling  town.  Also,  he  hobnobs 
continually  with  a  sprawling,  brawling,  bad- 
breathed  smelter,  as  no  respectable  Titan 
should  do.  And  on  top  of  it  all — and  this 
was  the  straw  that  broke  the  back  of  my  sen- 
timental camel — he  allows  them  to  maintain 
a  park  on  the  cliffs  above  him,  where  the 
merest  white-skinned,  counter- jumping  pigmy 
may  come  of  a  Sunday  for  his  glass  of  pop  and 
a  careless  squint  at  the  toiling  Titan.  Puny 
Philistines     eating     peanuts     and     watching 


36  The  River  and  I 

Samson  at  his  Gaza  stunt!  I  like  it  not. 
Rather  would  I  see  the  Muse  Clio  pealing 
potatoes  or  Persephone  busy  with  a  banana 
cart!  Enceladus  wriggling  under  a  mountain 
is  well  enough;  but  Enceladus  composedly 
turning  a  crank  for  little  men — he  seemed 
too  heavy  for  that  light  work. 

Leaning  on  the  frame  observation  platform, 
I  closed  my  eyes,  and  in  the  dull  roar  that 
seemed  the  voices  of  countless  ages,  the  park 
and  the  smelter  and  the  silly  bustling  trolley 
cars  and  the  ginger-ale  and  the  peanuts  and 
my  physical  self — all  but  my  own  soul — 
were  swallowed  up.  I  saw  my  Titan  brother 
as  he  was  made — four  hundred  yards  of 
writhing,  liquid  sinew,  strenuously  idle,  mag- 
nificently worthless,  flinging  meaningless 
thunders  over  the  vast  arid  plain,  splendidly 
empty  under  sun  and  stars!  I  saw  him  as 
La  Verendrye  must  have  seen  him — busy  only 
at  the  divine  business  of  being  a  giant.  And 
for  a  moment  behind  shut  eyes,  it  seemed 
very  inconsequential  to  me  that  cranks  should 
be  turned  and  that  trolley  cars  should  run 
up   and   down   precisely   in   the   same   place, 


BLACK  EAGLE   FALLS 

37 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  39 

never  getting  anywhere,  and  that  there  should 
be  anything  in  all  that  tract  but  an  austere 
black  eagle  or  two,  and  my  own  soul,  and  my 
Titan  brother. 

When  I  looked  again,  I  could  half  imagine 
the  old  turbulent  fellow  winking  slily  at  me 
and  saying  in  that  undertone  you  hear  when 
you  forget  the  thunders  for  a  moment:  "Don't 
you  worry  about  me,  little  man.  It 's  all  a 
joke,  and  I  don't  mind.  Only  to-morrow  and 
then  another  to-morrow,  and  there  won't  be 
any  smelters  or  trolley  cars  or  ginger-ale  or  pea- 
nuts or  sentimentalizing  outers  like  yourself. 
But  I  '11  be  here  howling  under  sun  and  stars." 

Whereupon  I  posed  the  toiling  philosopher 
before  the  camera,  pressed  the  bulb,  and  des- 
scended  from  the  summit  of  the  cliff  (as  well 
as  from  my  point  of  view)  to  the  trail  skirting 
northward  up  the  river,  leaving  Enceladus 
grumbling  at  his  crank. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  cranks  really  have  to  be 
turned.  Still,  it  seems  too  bad,  and  I  have 
long  bewailed  it  almost  as  a  personal  grief, 
that  utility  and  ugliness  should  so  often  be 
running  mates. 


40  The  River  and  I 

They  tell  me  that  the  Matterhorn  never 
did  a  tap  of  work ;  and  you  could  n't  color  one 
Easter  egg  with  all  the  gorgeous  sunsets  of 
the  world!  May  we  all  become,  some  day, 
perfectly  useless  and  beautiful! 

At  the  foot  of  the  first  fall,  a  mammoth 
spring  wells  up  out  of  the  rock.  Nobody 
tells  you  about  it ;  you  run  across  it  by  chance, 
and  it  interests  you  much  more  in  that  way. 
It  would  seem  that  a  spring  throwing  out  a 
stream  equivalent  to  a  river  one  hundred 
yards  wide  and  two  feet  deep  would  deserve 
a  little  exploitation.  Down  East  they  would 
have  a  great  white  sprawling  hotel  built  close 
by  it  wherein  one  could  drink  spring  water  (at 
a  quarter  the  quart),  with  half  a  pathology 
pasted  on  the  bottle  as  a  label.  But  nobody 
seems  to  care  much  about  so  small  an  ooze 
out  there:  everything  else  is  so  big.  And  so 
it  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  but  go  right  on  being 
one  of  the  very  biggest  springs  of  all  the 
world.  This  is  really  something;  and  I  like 
it  better  than  the  quarter-per-quart  idea. 

In  sixteen  miles  the  Missouri  River  falls 
four  hundred  feet.     Incidentally,  this  stretch 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  41 

of  river  is  said  to  be  capable  of  producing 
the  most  tremendous  water-power  in  the 
world. 

After  skirting  four  miles  of  water  that  ran 
like  a  mill-race,  we  came  upon  the  Rainbow 
Falls,  where  a  thousand  feet  of  river  takes  a 
drop  of  fifty  feet  over  a  precipice  regular  as  a 
wall  of  masonry.  This  was  much  more  to 
my  liking — a  million  horse-power  or  so  busy 
making  rainbows !     Bully! 

It  was  a  very  hot  day  and  the  sun  was  now 
high.  I  sat  down  to  wipe  the  sweat  out  of 
my  eyes.  (One  does  not  perspire  in  July  up 
there ;  one  sweats!)  I  wished  to  get  acquainted 
with  this  weaver  of  iridescent  nothings  who 
knew  so  well  the  divine  art  of  doing  nothing 
at  all  and  doing  it  good  and  hard!  After  all, 
it  isn't  so  easy  to  do  nothing  and  make  it 
count ! 

And  in  the  end,  when  all  broken  lights 
have  blended  again  with  the  Source  Light, 
I  'm  not  so  sure  that  rainbows  will  seem  less 
important  than  rows  and  rows  of  arc  lights 
and  clusters  and  clusters  of  incandescent 
globes.     Are  you?     I  can  contract  an  indefin- 


42  The  River  and  I 

able  sort  of  heartache  from  the  blue  sputter 
of  a  city  light  that  snuffs  out  moon  and  stars 
for  tired  scurrying  folks:  but  the  opalescent 
mist-drift  of  the  Rainbow  Falls  wove 
heavens  for  me  in  its  sheen,  and  through  its 
whirlwind  rifts  and  crystal  flaws,  far  reaches 
opened  up  with  all  the  heart's  desire  at  the 
other  end.  You  shut  your  eyes  with  that 
thunder  in  your  ears  and  that  gusty  mist  on 
your  face,  and  you  see  it  very  plainly — more 
plainly  than  ever  so  many  arc  lights  could 
make  you  see  it — the  ultimate  meaning  of 
things.  To  be  sure,  when  you  open  your 
eyes  again,  it 's  all  gone — the  storm-flung 
rainbows  seem  to  hide  it  again. 

A  mile  below,  we  came  upon  the  Crooked 
Falls  of  twenty  feet.  Leaving  the  left  bank, 
and  running  almost  parallel  with  it  for  some 
three  hundred  yards,  then  turning  and  making 
a  horseshoe,  and  returning  to  the  right  bank 
almost  opposite  the  place  of  first  observation, 
this  fall  is  nearly  a  mile  in  length,  being  an 
unbroken  sheet  for  that  distance.  This  one, 
also,  does  nothing  at  all,  and  in  a  beautifully 
irregular  way.       Somehow  it  made  me  think 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  43 

of  Walt  Whitman!  But  we  left  it  soon, 
swinging  out  into  the  open  parched  country. 
We  knew  all  this  turbulence  to  be  merely  the 
river's  bow  before  the  great  stunt. 

As  we  swung  along,  kicking  up  the  acrid 
alkali  dust  from  the  cattle-trail  that  snaked 
its  way  through  the  cactus  and  sagebrush, 
the  roar  behind  us  died;  and  before  us,  far 
away,  dull  muffled  thunders  grew  up  in  the 
hush  of  the  burning  noon.  Thunders  in  a 
desert,  and  no  cloud!  For  an  hour  we  swung 
along  the  trail,  and  ever  the  thunders  in- 
creased— like  the  undertone  of  the  surf  when 
the  sea  whitens.  We  were  approaching  the 
Great  Falls  of  the  Missouri.  There  were  no 
sign  posts  in  that  lonesome  tract;  no  one  of 
whom  to  ask  the  way.  Little  did  we  need 
direction.  The  voice  of  thunder  crying  in 
the  desert  led  us  surely. 

A  half -hour  more  of  clambering  over  shale- 
strewn  gullies,  up  sun-baked  watercourses, 
and  we  found  ourselves  toiling  up  the  ragged 
slope  of  a  bluff;  and  soon  we  stood  upon  a 
rocky  ledge  with  the  thunders  beneath  us. 
Damp  gusts  beat  upward  over  the  blistering 


44  The  River  and  I 

scarp  of  the  cliff.  I  lay  down,  and  crawling 
to  the  edge,  looked  over.  Two  hundred  feet 
below  me — straight  down  as  a  pebble  drops 
— a  watery  Inferno  raged,  and  far-flung 
whirlwinds,  all  but  exhausted  with  the  dizzy 
upward  reach,  whisked  cool,  invisible  mops 
of  mist  across  my  face. 

Flung  down  a  preliminary  mile  of  steep 
descent,  choked  in  between  soaring  walls  of 
rock  four  hundred  yards  apart,  innumerable 
crystal  tons  rushed  down  ninety  feet  in  one 
magnificent  plunge.  You  saw  the  long  bent 
crest — shimmering  with  the  changing  colors  of 
a  peacock's  back — smooth  as  a  lake  when  all 
winds  sleep;  and  then  the  mighty  river  was 
snuffed  out  in  gulfs  of  angry  gray.  Capri- 
cious river  draughts,  sucking  up  the  damp 
defile,  whipped  upward  into  the  blistering 
sunlight  gray  spiral  towers  that  leaped  into 
opal  fires  and  dissolved  in  showers  of  diamond 
and  pearl  and  amethyst. 

I  caught  myself  tightly  gripping  the  ledge 
and  shrinking  with  a  shuddering  instinctive 
fear.  Then  suddenly  the  thunders  seemed 
to  stifle  all  memory  of  sound — and  left  only 


GREAT    FALLS    FROM    CLIFF    ABOVE 
45 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  47 

the  silent  universe  with  myself  and  this  terri- 
bly beautiful  thing  in  the  midst  of  utter 
emptiness.  And  I  loved  it  with  a  strange, 
desperate,  tigerish  love.  It  expressed  itself 
so  magnificently;  and  that  is  really  all  a  man, 
or  a  waterfall,  or  a  mountain,  or  a  flower, 
or  a  grasshopper,  or  a  meadow  lark,  or 
an  ocean,  or  a  thunderstorm  has  to  do  in 
this  world.  And  it  was  doing  it  right 
out  in  the  middle  of  a  desert,  bleak,  sun- 
leprosied,  forbidding,  with  only  the  stars  and 
the  moon  and  the  sun  and  a  cliff-swallow  or 
two  to  behold.  Thundering  out  its  message 
into  the  waste  places,  careless  of  audiences — 
like  a  Master!  Bully,  grizzled  old  Master- 
Bard  singing — as  most  of  them  do — to  empty 
benches!  And  it  had  been  doing  that  ten 
thousand  thousand  years,  and  would  do  so  for 
ten  thousand  thousand  more,  and  never  pause 
for  plaudits.  I  suspect  the  soul  of  old  Homer 
did  that — and  is  still  doing  it,  somehow,  some- 
where. After  all  there  is  n't  much  difference 
between  really  tremendous  things — Homer  or 
waterfalls  or  thunderstorms — is  there?  It 's 
only  a  matter  of  how  things  happen  to  be  big. 


48  The  River  and  I 

I  was  absent-mindedly  chasing  some  big 
thundering  line  of  Sophocles  when  Bill,  the 
little  Cornishman,  ran  in  between  me  and 
the  evasive  line:  "Lord!  what  a  waste  of 
power ! ' ' 

There  is  some  difference  in  temperaments. 
Most  men,  I  fancy,  would  have  enjoyed  a 
talk  with  a  civil  engineer  upon  that  ledge. 
I  should  have  liked  to  have  Shelley  there, 
myself.  It 's  the  difference  between  poetry 
and  horse-power,  dithyrambics  and  dynamos, 
Keats  and  Kipling!  What  is  the  energy 
exerted  by  the  Great  Falls  of  the  Missouri? 
How  many  horse-power  did  Shelley  fling  into 
the  creation  of  his  West  Wind?  How  many 
foot-pounds  did  the  boy  heart  of  Chatterton 
beat  before  it  broke?  Please  leave  something 
to  the  imagination! 

We  backtrailed  to  a  point  where  the  cliff 
fell  away  into  a  rock-strewn  incline,  and  clam- 
bered down  a  break-neck  slope  to  the  edge 
of  the  crystal  broil.  There  was  a  strange 
exhilaration  about  it — a  novel  sense  of  dis- 
covering a  natural  wonder  for  ourselves. 
We  seemed  the  first  men  who  had  ever  been 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  51 

there:  that  was  the  most  gripping  thing 
about  it. 

Aloof,  stupendous,  terrific,  staggering  in 
the  intensity  of  its  wild  beauty,  you  reach 
it  by  a  trail.  There  are  no  'busses  running 
and  you  can't  buy  a  sandwich  or  a  peanut 
or  a  glass  of  beer  within  ten  miles  of  its 
far-flung  thunders.  For  twentieth  century 
America,  that  is  doing  rather  well! 

Skirting  the  slippery  rocks  at  the  lip  of  the 
mad  flood,  we  swung  ourselves  about  a  ledge, 
dripping  with  the  cool  mist-drift;  descended 
to  the  level  of  the  lower  basin,  where  a 
soaking  fog  made  us  shiver;  pushed  through 
a  dripping,  oozing,  autumnal  sort  of  twilight, 
and  came  out  again  into  the  beat  of  the  desert 
sun,  to  look  squarely  into  the  face  of  the 
giant. 

A  hawk  wheeled  and  swooped  and  floated  far 
up  in  the  dazzling  air.  Somehow  that  hawk 
seemed  to  make  the  lonely  place  doubly  lonely. 
Did  you  ever  notice  how  a  lone  coyote  on  a 
snow-heaped  prairie  gives  you  a  heartache, 
whereas  the  empty  waste  would  only  have 
exhilarated    you?     Always,    it    seemed,    that 


52  The  River  and  I 

veering  hawk  had  hung  there,  and  would 
hang  so  always — outliving  the  rising  of  suns 
and  the  drifting  of  stars  and  the  visits  of  the 
moon. 

A  vague  sense  of  grief  came  over  me  at  the 
thought  of  all  this  eternal  restlessness,  this 
turbulent  fixity;  and,  after  all,  it  seemed  much 
greater  to  be  even  a  very  little  man,  living 
largely,  dying,  somehow,  into  something  big 
and  new;  than  to  be  this  Promethean  sort  of 
thing,  a  giant  waterfall  in  a  waste. 

I  have  known  men  who  felt  dwarfed  in  the 
presence  of  vast  and  awful  things.  I  never 
felt  bigger  than  when  I  first  looked  upon  the 
ocean.  The  skyward  lift  of  a  mountain  peak 
makes  me  feel  very,  very  tall.  And  when  a 
thunderstorm  comes  down  upon  the  world 
out  of  the  northwest,  with  jagged  blades  of 
fire  ripping  up  the  black  bellies  of  the  clouds, 
I  know  all  about  the  heart  of  Attila  and  the 
Vikings  and  tigers  and  Alexander  the  Great! 
So  I  think  I  grew  a  bit,  out  there  talking 
to  that  water-giant  who  does  nothing  at  all — 
not  even  a  vaudeville  stunt  —  and  does  it  so 
masterfully. 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  53 

By  and  by  they  '11  build  a  hotel  in  the  flat 
at  the  edge  of  the  lower  basin;  plant  prim 
flowers  in  very  prim  beds;  and  rob  you  on 
the  genteel  European  plan.  Comfortably  sit- 
ting in  a  willow  chair  on  the  broad  veranda,  one 
will  read  the  signs  on  those  cliffs — all  about 
the  best  shoes  to  wear,  and  what  particular 
pill  of  all  the  pills  that  be,  should  be  taken 
for  that  ailing  kidney.  But  it  will  not  be  I 
who  shall  sit  in  that  willow  chair  on  that 
broad,  as  yet  unbuilt,  veranda. 

The  sun  was  glinting  at  the  rim  of  the  cliffs, 
and  the  place  of  awe  and  thunders  was  slowly 
filling  with  shadow.  We  found  a  steep  trail, 
inaccessible  for  vehicles,  leading  upward 
in  the  direction  of  Benton.  It  was  getting 
that  time  of  day  when  even  a  sentimentalist 
wants  a  beefsteak,  especially  if  he  has  hiked 
over  dusty  scorching  trails  and  scrambled 
over  rocks  all  day. 

Some  kind  man  back  in  the  town,  with  a 
fund  of  that  most  useless  article,  information, 
had  told  us  of  a  place  called  Goodale,  theoreti- 
cally existing  on  the  Great  Northern  Railroad 
between  Great  Falls  and  Benton.     We  had 


54  The  River  and  I 

provided  only  for  luncheon,  trusting  to  fate 
and  Goodale  for  supper. 

Goodale!  A  truly  beautiful  name!  No 
doubt  in  some  miraculous  way  the  character 
of  the  country  changed  suddenly  just  before 
you  got  there  merely  to  justify  the  name. 
Surely  no  one  would  have  the  temerity  to 
conjure  up  so  beautiful  a  name  for  a  desert 
town.  Yet,  half  unwillingly,  I  thought  of  a 
little  place  I  once  visited — ■  against  my  will, 
since  the  brakeman  put  me  off  there — by  the 
name  of  Forest  City.  I  remembered  with 
misgivings  how  there  wasn't  a  tree  within 
something  like  four  hundred  miles.  But  I 
pushed  that  memory  aside  as  a  lying  prophet. 
I  believed  in  Goodale  and  beefsteak.  Goodale 
would  be  a  neat,  quiet  little  town,  set  snugly 
in  a  verdant  valley.  We  would  come  into  it 
by  starlight — down  a  careless  gypsying  sort  of 
country  road;  and  there  would  be  the  sound 
of  a  dear  little  trickling  bickering  cool  stream 
out  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees  fringing 
the  approach  to  Goodale.  And  we  'd  pass 
pretty  little  cottages  with  vines  growing 
over     the     doors,     and    hollyhocks    peeping 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  55 

over  the  fences,  and  cheerful  lights  in  the 
windows. 

Goodale!  And  then,  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  town  (no,  village — the  word  is  cosier 
somehow) — right  in  the  middle  of  the  village 
there  would  be  a  big  restaurant,  with  such 
alluring  scents  of  beefsteak  all  about  it. 

I  set  the  pace  up  that  trail.  It  was  a 
swinging,  loose,  cavalry-horse  sort  of  pace — 
the  kind  that  rubs  the  blue  off  the  distance 
and  paints  the  back  trail  gray.  Goodale  was 
a  sort  of  Mecca.  I  thought  of  it  with  some- 
thing like  a  religious  awe.  How  far  was 
Goodale,  would  you  suppose?  Not  far,  cer- 
tainly, once  we  found  the  railroad. 

We  made  the  last  steep  climb  breath- 
lessly, and  came  out  on  the  level.  A  great, 
monotonous,  heartachy  prairie  lay  before 
us  —  utterly  featureless  in  the  twilight.  Far 
off  across  the  scabby  land  a  thin  black  line 
swept  out  of  the  dusk  into  the  dusk  — 
straight  as  a  crow's  flight.  It  was  the  rail- 
road. We  made  a  cross-cut  for  it,  tum- 
bling over  gopher  holes,  plunging  through 
sagebrush,   scrambling  over  gullies  that  told 


56  The  River  and  I 

the  incredible  tale  of  torrents  having  been 
there  once.  I  ate  quantities  of  alkali  dust 
and  went  on  believing  in  Goodale  and  beef- 
steak. Beefsteak  became  one  of  the  princi- 
pal stations  on  the  Great  Northern  Railroad, 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned  personally.  That 
is  what  you  might  call  the  geography  of  a 
healthy  stomach. 

With  the  falling  of  the  sun  the  climate  of  the 
country  had  changed.  It  was  no  longer 
blistering.  You  sat  down  for  a  moment 
and  a  shiver  went  up  your  spine.  At  noon  I 
thought  about  all  the  lime-kilns  I  had  ever  met. 
Now  I  could  hear  the  hickory  nuts  dropping 
in  the  crisp  silence  down  in  the  old  Missouri 
woods. 

We  struck  the  railroad  and  went  faster. 
Since  my  first  experience  with  railroad  ties,  I 
have  continued  to  associate  them  with  hunger. 
I  need  only  look  an  ordinary  railroad  tie  in 
the  face  to  contract  a  wonderful  appetite. 
It  works  on  the  principle  of  a  memory 
system.  So,  as  we  put  the  ties  behind  us, 
I  increased  my  order  at  that  restaurant 
in    the    sweet    little    pedestrian's    village    of 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  57 

Goodale.  "A  couple  of  eggs  on  the  side, 
waiter,"  I  said  half  audibly  to  the  petite 
woman  in  the  white  apron  who  served  the 
tables  in  the  restaurant  there.  She  was 
very  real  to  me.  I  could  count  the  rings 
on  her  fingers;  and  when  she  smiled,  I  noted 
that  her  teeth  were  very  white — doubtless 
they  got  that  way  from  eating  quantities  and 
quantities  of  thick  juicy  beefsteak! 

The  track  took  a  sudden  turn  ahead. 
"Around  that  bend,"  said  I  aloud,  "lies 
Goodale."  We  went  faster.  We  rounded 
the  bend,  only  to  see  the  dusky,  heartachy, 
barren  stretch. 

"Railroads,"  explained  I  to  myself,  "have 
a  way  of  going  somewhere;  it  is  one  of  their 
peculiarities."  No  doubt  this  track  had  been 
laid  for  the  express  purpose  of  guiding  hungry 
folks  to  the  hospitable  little  village.  We 
plunged  on  for  an  hour.  Meanwhile  my 
orders  to  the  trim  little  woman  in  the  white 
apron  increased  steadily.  She  smiled  broadly 
but  winsomely,  showing  those  charming  beef- 
steak-polished teeth.  They  shone  like  a  beacon 
ahead  of  me,  for  it  was  now  dark. 


58  The  River  and  I 

Suddenly  we  came  upon  a  signboard.  We 
went  up  to  it,  struck  a  match,  and  read  breath- 
lessly— ' '  GOODALE. ' ' 

We  looked  about  us.  Goodale  was  a  switch 
and  a  box  car. 

Nothing  beside  remains, 

I  quoted  audibly: 

'round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

Alas  for  the  trim  little  lady  with  the  white 
teeth  and  the  smile  and  the  beefsteak ! 

We  said  bitter  things  there  in  that  waste 
about  the  man  with  the  information.  We 
loaded  his  memory  with  anathemas.  One 
cannot  eat  a  signboard,  even  with  so  inviting 
a  name  upon  it.  An  idea  struck  me — it 
seemed  a  very  brilliant  one  at  the  moment. 
I  sat  down  and  delivered  myself  of  it  to  my 
companions,  who  also  had  lusted  after  the 
flesh-pots.  "We  have  wronged  that  man 
with  the  information,"  said  I.  "He  was  no 
ordinary  individual;  he  was  a  prophet:  he 
simply  got  his  dates  mixed.     In  precisely  one 


Sixteen  Miles  of  Awe  59 

hundred  years  from  now,  there  will  be  a  town 
on  this  spot — and  a  restaurant!  Shall  we 
wait?" 

They  cursed  me  bitterly.  I  suspect  neither 
of  them  is  a  philosopher.  Thereat  I  proceeded 
to  eat  a  thick  juicy  steak  from  the  T-bone 
portion  of  an  unborn  steer,  served  by  the 
trim  little  lady  of  a  hundred  years  hence, 
there  in  that  potential  village  of  Goodale. 
And  as  I  smoked  my  cigarette,  I  felt  very 
thankful  for  all  the  beautiful  things  that  do 
not  exist. 

And  I  slept  that  night  in  the  great  front 
bedroom,  the  ceiling  of  which  is  of  diamond 
and  turquoise. 


CHAPTER  III 

HALF-WAY  TO  THE  MOON 

A  T  last  the  sinuous  yellow  road    dropped 
over  the  bluff  rim  and,  to  all  appear- 
ances,  dissolved   into  the  sky — a   gray-blue, 
genius-colored  sky. 

It  was  sundown,  and  this  was  the  end  of 
the  trail  for  us.  Beneath  the  bluff  rim  lay 
Benton.  We  flung  ourselves  down  in  the 
bunch-grass  that  whispered  drily  in  a  cool 
wind  fresh  from  the  creeping  night-shade. 
Now  that  Benton  lay  beneath  us,  I  was  in 
no  hurry  to  look  upon  it. 

Fort  Benton  ?  What  a  clarion  cry  that  name 
had  been  to  me!  Old  men — too  old  for 
voyages— had  talked  about  this  place;  a  long 
time  ago,  'way  down  on  the  Kansas  City 
docks,  I  had  heard  them.  How  far  away  it 
was    then!     Reach    after    reach,    bend    after 

bend,     grunting,     snoring,     toiling,     sparring 

60 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  61 

over  bars,  bucking  the  currents,  dodging 
the  snags,  went  the  snub-nosed  steamers — 
brave  little  steamers! — forging  on  toward 
Fort  Benton.  And  it  was  so  very,  very  far 
away — half-way  to  the  moon  no  doubt!  St. 
Louis  was  indeed  very  far  away.  But  Fort 
Benton! 

Well,  they  spoke  of  the  Fort  Benton  traffic 
as  "the  mountain  trade,"  and  I  had  not  then 
seen  a  mountain.  You  could  stand  on  the 
very  tallest  building  in  Kansas  City,  and  you 
could  look  and  look  and  never  see  a  mountain. 
And  to  think  how  far  the  brave  little  steamers 
had  to  go!  How  did  they  ever  manage  to 
get  back? 

But  the  old  men  on  the  docks — they  had 
been  there  and  all  the  way  back,  perhaps 
hundreds  of  times.  And  they  were  such 
heroes!  Great  paw-like  hands  they  had, 
toughened  with  the  gripping  of  cables; 
eyes  that  had  that  way  of  looking  through 
and  far  beyond  things.  (Seamen  and  plains- 
men have  it.)  And  they  had  such  romantic, 
crinkly,  wrinkly,  leathery  faces.  They  got 
so  on  the  way  to   Benton  and  back.     And 


62  The  River  and  I 

they  talked  about  it — those  old  men  lounging 
on  the  docks — because  it  was  so  far  away  and 
they  were  so  old  that  they  could  n't  get  there 
any  more. 

What  a  picture  I  made  out  of  their  kaleido- 
scopic chatter;  beautifully  inaccurate,  im- 
possibly romantic  picture,  in  which  big 
muscley  men  had  fights  with  yawping  painted 
savages  that  always  got  gloriously  licked,  in 
the  approved  story-book  manner!  I  could 
shut  my  eyes  and  see  it  all  very  plainly,  away 
off  there  half-way  to  the  moon.  And  I  used 
to  wonder  how  my  father  could  be  such  a 
strong  man  and  never  have  any  hankering 
to  go  up  there  at  all!  The  two  facts  were 
quite  incompatible.  He  should  have  been  a 
captain  and  taken  me  on  for  cub  pilot,  or  at 
least  a  "striker"  engineer;  though  I  wouldn't 
have  objected  seriously  to  the  business  of  a 
cabin  boy.  I  thought  it  would  be  very  nice 
to  engage  in  the  mountain  trade. 

And  then,  after  a  while,  in  the  new  light  that 
creeps  in  with  years,  I  began  to  rearrange 
my  picture  of  things  up  there;  and  Benton 
crept  a  wee  bit  closer — until  I  could  see  its 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  65 

four  adobe  walls  and  its  two  adobe  bastions, 
stern  with  portholes,  sitting  like  bulldogs 
at  the  opposite  corners  ready  to  bark  at 
intruders.  And  in  and  out  at  the  big  gate 
went  the  trappers — sturdy,  rough-necked, 
hirsute  fellows  in  buckskins,  with  Northwest 
fusils  on  their  shoulders;  lean-bodied,  capable 
fellows,  with  souls  as  lean  as  their  bodies, 
survivors  of  long  hard  trails,  men  who  could 
go  far  and  eat  little  and  never  give  up.  I 
was  very  fond  of  that  sort  of  man. 

Little  by  little  the  picture  grew.  Indian 
bull  boats  flocked  at  the  river  front  beneath  the 
stern  adobe  walls ;  moored  mackinaws  swayed 
in  the  current,  waiting  to  be  loaded  with  pel- 
tries and  loosed  for  the  long  drift  back  to  the 
States;  and  keel-boats,  looking  very  fat  and 
lazy,  unloaded  supplies  in  the  late  fall  that  were 
loaded  at  St.  Louis  in  the  early  spring.  And 
these  had  come  all  the  way  without  the  stroke 
of  a  piston  or  the  crunch  of  a  paddle-wheel  or 
a  pound  of  steam.  Nothing  but  grit  and  man- 
muscle  to  drag  them  a  small  matter  of  two  or 
three  thousand  miles  up  the  current  of  the  most 
eccentric  old  duffer  of  a  river  in  the  world ! 


66  The  River  and  I 

What  men  it  did  take  to  do  that!  I  saw 
them  on  the  wild  shelterless  banks  of  the 
yellow  flood — a  score  or  so  of  them — stripped 
and  sweating  under  the  prairie  sun,  with  the 
cordelle  on  their  calloused  shoulders,  straight- 
ening out  to  the  work  like  honest  oxen.  What 
males  those  cordelle  men  were  — what  stayers ! 
Fed  on  wild,  red  meat,  lean  and  round  of 
waist,  thick  of  chest,  thewed  for  going  on  to 
the  finish!  Ten  or  fifteen  miles  a  day  and 
every  inch  a  fight !  Be  sure  they  did  n't  do 
it  merely  for  the  two  or  three  hundred  dollars 
a  year  they  got  from  the  Company.  They 
did  it  because  they  were  that  sort  of  men,  and 
had  to  express  themselves.  Everything  worth 
while  is  done  that  way. 

Do  they  raise  that  breed  now?  Never 
doubt  it!  You  need  only  find  your  keel- 
boats  or  their  equivalents,  and  the  men  will 
come  around  for  the  job,  I  'm  sure.  But  when 
you  speak  enthusiastically  of  the  old  Greek 
doers  of  things,  I  'd  like  to  put  in  a  few  words 
for  those  old  up-river  men.  They  belong  to 
the  unwritten  American  epic. 

And  then  the  keel-boats  and  the  bull-boats 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  67 

and  the  mackinaws  and  the  up-river  men 
flashed  out — like  a  stereopticon  picture  when 
the  man  moves  the  slide;  and  I  saw  a  little 
ragged  village  of  log  houses  scattered  along 
the  water  front.  I  saw  the  levees  piled  with 
merchandise,  and  a  score  or  more  of  packets 
rushing  fresh  cargoes  ashore — mates  bawling 
commands  down  the  gangplanks  where  the 
roustabouts  came  and  went  at  a  trot.  Gold- 
mad  hundreds  thronged  the  wagon-rutted 
streets  of  this  raw  little  village,  the  commer- 
cial centre  of  a  vast  new  empire.  Six-horse 
freighters  trundled  away  toward  the  gold 
fields;  and  others  trundled  in,  their  horses 
jaded  with  the  precious  freight  they  pulled. 
And  I  saw  steamers  dropping  out  for  the  long 
voyage  back  to  the  States,  freighted  with 
cargoes  of  gold  dust — really  truly  story-book 
treasure-ships  that  would  have  made  old 
Captain  Kidd's  men  mad  with  delight. 

As  I  lay  dreaming  in  the  bunch-grass,  it  all 
grew  up  so  real  that  I  had  to  get  up  and  take 
my  first  look,  half  expecting  to  find  it  all 
there  just  as  in  the  old  days. 

We  stood  at  the  rim  of  the  bluff  and  looked 


68  The  River  and  I 

down  into  a  cup-like  valley  upon  a  quiet 
little  village,  winking  with  scattered  lights 
in  the  gloaming.  Past  it  swept  the  river — 
glazed  with  the  twilight  and  silver-splotted 
with  early  stars. 

This  was  Benton — it  could  have  been  almost 
any  other  town  as  well.  And  yet,  once  upon 
a  time,  it  had  filled  my  day-dreams  with 
wonders — this  place  that  seemed  half-way 
to  the  moon. 

The  shrill  shriek  of  a  Great  Northern 
locomotive,  trundling  freight  cars  through 
the  gloom,  gave  the  death-stroke  to  the  old 
boy-dream.  It  was  the  cry  of  modernity. 
This  boisterous,  bustling,  smoke-breathing 
thing,  plunging  through  the  night  with  flame 
in  its  throat,  had  made  the  change,  dragged 
old  Benton  out  of  the  far-off  lunar  regions 
and  set  what  is  left  of  it  right  down  in  the 
back  yard  of  the  world.  Even  a  very  little 
boy  could  get  there  now. 

"And  yet,"  thought  I,  as  we  set  out  rapidly 
for  the  village  in  the  valley,  "the  difference 
between  the  poetry  of  mackinaws  and  Great 
Northern  locomotives  is  merely  a  matter  of 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  7 1 

perspective.  If  those  old  cordelle  men  could 
only  come  back  for  a  while  from  their 
Walhalla,  how  they  would  crowd  about  that 
wind-splitting,  fire-eating,  iron  beast,  panting 
from  its  long  run,  and  catching  its  breath  for 
another  plunge  into  the  waste  places  and  the 
night!  And  I?  I  would  be  gazing  wide- 
mouthed  at  the  cordelle  men.  It's  only  the 
human  curiosity  about  the  other  side  of  the 
moon.  How  perfect  the  nights  would  be  if 
we  could  only  see  that  lost  Pleiad ! ' ' 

Ankle-deep  in  the  powdery  sand,  we  entered 
the  little  town  with  its  business  row  facing  the 
water  front.  One  glance  at  the  empty  levees 
told  you  of  the  town's  dead  glory.  Not  a 
steamboat's  stacks,  blackening  in  the  gloom, 
broke  the  peaceful  glitter  of  the  river  under 
the  stars.  But  along  the  sidewalk  where 
the  electric-lighted  bar-rooms  buzzed  and 
hummed,  brawny  cow-men,  booted  and 
spurred,  lounged  about,  talking  in  that  odd 
but  not  unpleasant  Western  English  that 
could  almost  be  called  a  dialect. 

But  it  was  not  the  Benton  of  the  cow-men 
that  I  felt  about  me.     It  was  still  for  me  the 


72  The  River  and  I 

Benton  of  the  fur  trade  and  the  steamboats 
and  the  gold  rush — my  boyhood's  Benton 
half-way  to  the  moon — the  ghost  of  a  dead 
town. 

At  Goodale  I  had  sought  a  substantial  town 
and  found  a  visionary  one.  At  Benton  I  had. 
sought  a  visionary  town  and  found  a  substan- 
tial one.  Philosophy  was  plainly  indicated  as 
the  proper  thing.  And,  after  all,  a  steaming 
plate  of  lamb  chops  in  a  Chinese  chuck-house 
of  a  substantial  though  disappointing  town, 
is  more  acceptable  to  even  a  dreamer  than 
the  visionary  beefsteak  I  ate  out  there  in  that 
latent  restaurant  of  a  potential  village. 

This  was  a  comfortable  thought;  and  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  the  far  weird  cry  of  things 
that  are  no  more,  was  of  no  avail.  The 
rapid  music  of  knife  and  fork  drowned  out 
the  asthmatic  snoring  of  the  ghostly  packets 
that  buck  the  stream  no  more.  How  grub 
does  win  against  sentiment ! 

Swallowing  the  last  of  the  chops,  "Where 
will  I  find  the  ruins  of  the  old  fort?"  I 
asked  of  my  bronze-faced  neighbor  across 
the  wreck  of  supper.      He  looked  bored  and 


Half- Way  to  the  Moon  75 

stiffened  a  horny  practical  thumb  in  the 
general  direction  of  the  ruins.  "  Over  there," 
he  said  laconically. 

I  caught  myself  wondering  if  a  modern 
Athenian  would  thus  carelessly  direct  you  to 
the  Acropolis.  Is  the  comparison  faulty? 
Surely  a  ruin  is  sacred  only  for  what  men  did 
there.  We  are  indeed  a  headlong  race.  We 
keep  our  ruins  behind  us.  Perhaps  that  is 
why  we  get  somewhere.  And  yet,  what 
beauty  blooms  flowerlike  to  the  backward 
gaze!  Music  and  poetry — all  the  deepest, 
purest  sentiments  of  the  heart — are  fed 
greatly  upon  the  memory  of  the  things  that 
were  but  can  never  be  again.  Mnemosyne 
is  the  mother  of  all  the  Muses. 

I  got  up  and  went  out.  By  the  light  of  a 
thin  moon,  I  found  the  place  "over  there." 
An  odd,  pathetic  little  ruins  it  is,  to  be  sure. 
Nothing  imposing  about  it.  It  does  n't 
compel  through  admiration:  it  wooes  through 
pity — the  great,  impersonal  kind  of  pity. 

"A  single  little  turret  that  remains 
On  the  plains" — 

Browning   tells   about   all   there   is   to   tell 


76  The  River  and  I 

about  it,  though  he  never  heard  of  it;  only 
they  called  it  a  "bastion"  in  old  days — the 
little  square  adobe  blockhouse  that  won't 
stand  much  longer.  One  crumbling  bastion 
and  two  gaunt  fragments  of  adobe  walls  in  a 
waste  of  sand  beside  the  river — that's  Fort 
Benton. 

A  thin  pale  grudging  strip  of  moon  lit  it  up : 
just  the  moon  by  which  to  see  ruins — a  moon 
for  backward  looking  and  regrets.  A  full 
round  love-moon  would  n't  have  served  at  all. 

Out  of  pure  moon-haze  I  restored  the  walls 
of  the  house  where  the  bourgeois  lived.  The 
fireplace  and  the  great  mud  chimney  are 
still  there,  and  the  smut  of  the  old  log  fires 
still  clings  inside.  The  man  who  sat  before 
that  hearth  was  an  American  king.  A  simple 
word  of  command  spoken  in  that  room  was  the 
thunder  of  the  law  in  the  wilderness  about 
and  men  obeyed.  There 's  a  bat  living  there 
now.  He  tumbled  about  me  in  the  dull  light, 
filling  the  silence  with  the  harsh  whir  of  pinions. 

I  thought  about  that  night  a  long,  long 
time  ago  when  all  the  people  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  newly  erected  fort,   gathered 


THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    BOURGEOIS 


77 


Half- Way  to  the  Moon  79 

here  for  a  house-warming.  How  clearly  I 
could  hear  that  squawking,  squeaking,  good- 
natured  fiddle  and  the  din  of  dancing  feet! 
Only  the  sound  got  mixed  up  with  the  dim, 
weird  moonlight,  until  you  did  n't  know 
whether  you  were  hearing  or  seeing  or  feel- 
ing it — the  music  of  the  fiddles  and  the  feet. 
Oh,  the  dim  far  music! 

I  thought  about  the  other  ruins  of  the 
world,  the  exploited,  tourist-haunted  ruins; 
and  I  wondered  why  the  others  attract  so 
much  attention  while  this  one  attracts  prac- 
tically none  at  all.  How  they  do  dig  after 
old  Troy — poor  old  long-buried,  much-abused 
Troy!  And  nobody  even  cares  to  steal  a 
brick  from  this  ruined  citadel  that  took  so 
great  a  part  in  the  American  epic.  Indeed, 
you  would  not  be  obliged  to  steal  a  brick; 
there  are  no  guards. 

Some  one  has  said  that  the  history  of  our 
country  as  taught  in  the  common  schools  is 
the  history  of  a  narrow  strip  of  land  along  the 
Atlantic  coast.  The  statement  is  significant. 
The  average  school-teacher  knows  very  little 
about  Fort  Benton,  I  suspect. 


80  The  River  and  I 

And  yet,  one  of  the  most  tremendous  of  all 
human  movements  centred  about  it — the 
movement  that  brought  about  the  settlement 
of  the  Northwest.  One  of  these  days  they 
will  plant  a  potato  patch  there ! 

But  modern  Benton? 

Get  on  a  train  in  the  East,  snuggle  up  in 
your  berth,  plunge  on  to  the  Western  coast, 
and  you  run  through  the  real  West  in  the 
night.  They  are  getting  Eastern  out  there 
at  the  rim  of  the  big  sea.  Benton  is  in  the 
West — the  big,  free,  heart-winning  West;  and 
it  gives  promise  of  staying  there  for  a  while 
yet. 

Charter  a  bronco  and  canter  out  across 
the  river  for  an  hour,  and  it  will  be  very  plain 
to  you  that  the  romantic  West  still  lives — 
the  West  of  the  cowboy  and  the  bronco  and 
the  steer.  Not  the  average  story-book  West, 
to  be  sure.  Perhaps  that  West  never  existed. 
But  it  is  the  West  that  has  bred  and  is  still 
breeding  a  race  of  men  as  beautiful  in  a  virile 
way  (and  how  else  should  men  be  beautiful?) 
as  this  dear  old  mother  of  an  Earth  ever 
suckled. 


Half- Way  to  the  Moon  83 

I  stood  once  on  the  yellow  slope  of  a  hill 
and  watched  a  round-up  outfit  passing  in  the 
gulch  below.  Four-horse  freighters  grumbling 
up  the  dusty  trail;  cook  wagons  trundling 
after ;  whips  popping  over  the  sweating  teams ; 
a  hundred  or  more  saddle  ponies  trailing 
after  in  rolling  clouds  of  glinting  dust;  a 
score  of  bronze-faced,  hard-fisted  outriders, 
mounted  on  gaunt,  tough,  wise  little  horses — - 
such  strong,  outdoor,  masterful  Americans, 
truly  beautiful  in  a  big  manly  way! 

The  sight  of  it  all  put  that  glorious  little 
achy  feeling  in  my  throat  that  you  get  when 
they  start  the  fife  and  drum,  or  when  a 
cavalry  column  wheels  at  the  word  of  com- 
mand, or  when  a  regiment  swings  past  with 
even  tread,  or  when  you  stand  on  a  dock  and 
watch  a  liner  dropping  out  into  the  fog.  It  's 
the  feeling  that  you  're  a  man  and  mighty 
proud  of  it.  But  somehow  it  always  makes 
you  just  a  little  sad. 

I  felt  proud  of  that  bunch  of  strong  capable 
fellows — proud  as  though  I  had  created  them 
myself. 

And    once   again    the   glorious   little    achy 


84  The  River  and  I 

feeling  in  the  throat  came.  The  Congressman 
from  Choteau  County  had  returned  from 
Washington  with  fresh  laurels;  and  Benton 
turned  out  to  welcome  her  Great  Man. 
Down  the  dusty,  poorly  lighted,  front  street 
came  the  little  band — a  shirt-sleeved  squad. 
Halting  under  the  dingy  glow  of  a  corner 
street-lamp,  they  struck  up  the  best-inten- 
tioned,  noisiest  noise  I  ever  heard.  The  tuba 
raced  lumberingly  after  the  galloping  cornet, 
that  ran  neck-and-neck  with  the  wheezing 
clarinet;  and  the  drums  beat  up  behind, 
pounding  like  the  hoofs  of  stiff-kneed  horses 
half  a  stretch  behind. 

It  was  a  mad,  exciting  race  of  sounds — 
a  sort  of  handicap.  The  circular  glow  of  the 
street-lamp  became  the  social  centre  of  Benton. 
At  last  the  mad  race  was  ended.  I  think  it 
was  the  cornet  that  won,  with  the  clarinet  a 
close  second.  The  tuba,  as  I  recollect  it, 
complacently  claimed  third  money,  and  the 
bass-drum  finished  last  with  a  shameless, 
resolute  boom ! 

A  great  hoarse  cry  went  up — probably  for 
the  winning  cornet;   a  big-lunged,  generous, 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  85 

warrior  cry  that  made  you  think  of  a  cavalry 
charge  in  the  face  of  bayonets.  And  the 
shirt-sleeved  band  swung  off  down  the 
street  in  the  direction  of  the  little  cottage 
where  the  Great  Man  lived.  All  Benton 
fell  in  behind — clerks  and  bar-keeps  and  sheep- 
men and  cowboys  tumbling  into  fours.  Under 
the  yellow  flare  of  the  kerosene  torches  they 
went  down  the  street  like  a  campaigning  com- 
pany in  rout  step,  scattering  din  and  dust. 

Great,  deep-chested,  happy-looking,  open 
air  fellows,  they  were;  big  lovers,  big  haters, 
good  laughers,  eaters,  drinkers — and  every 
one  of  them  potentially  a  fighting  man. 

And  suddenly,  as  I  watched  them  pass, 
something  deep  down  in  me  cried  out: 
"Great  God!  What  a  fighting  force  we  can 
drum  up  out  of  the  cactus  and  the  sagebrush 
when  the  time  comes!"  And  when  I  looked 
again,  not  one  of  the  sun-bronzed  faces  was 
strange  to  me,  but  every  one  was  the  face  of 
a  brother.  Choteau's  Congressman  was  my 
Congressman!  Benton's  Great  Man  was  my 
Great  Man!  I  fell  into  line  alongside  a  big 
bronco-buster    with    his    high  -  heeled    boots 


86  The  River  and  I 

and  his  clanking  spurs  and  his  bandy-legged, 
firm-footed  horseman's  stride.  Thirty  yards 
farther  on  we  were  old  comrades.  That  is 
the  Western  way. 

Once  again  the  little  band  struck  up  a 
march,  which  was  very  little  more  than  a 
rhythmic  snarling  and  booming  of  the  drums, 
with  now  and  then  the  shrill  savage  cry  of  the 
clarinet  stabbing  the  general  din.  Irresisti- 
bly the  whole  line  swung  into  step. 

What  is  it  about  the  rhythmic  stride  of 
many  men  down  a  dusty  road  that  grips  you 
by  the  throat  and  makes  your  lungs  feel  like 
overcharged  balloons?  I  felt  something  like 
the  maddening,  irritating  tang  of  powder- 
smoke  in  my  throat.  Trumpet  cries  that  I 
had  never  heard,  yet  somehow  dimly  remem- 
bered, wakened  in  the  night  about  us — far 
and  faint,  but  haughty  with  command.  It 
took  very  little  imagination  for  me  to  feel 
the  whirlwind  of  battles  I  may  never  know,  to 
hear  the  harsh  metallic  snarl  of  high-power 
bullets  I  may  never  face.  For,  marching 
there  in  the  dusty,  torch  -  painted  night, 
with  that  ragged   procession    of   Westerners, 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  87 

a  deep  sense  of  the  essential  comradeship  of 
free  men  had  come  upon  me;  and  I  could 
think  of  these  men  in  no  other  way  than  as 
potential  fighting  men — the  stern  hard  stuff 
with  which  you  build  and  keep  your  empires. 
What  a  row  little  old  Napoleon  could  have 
kicked  up  with  half  a  million  of  these  sage- 
brush boys  to  fling  foeward  under  his  cannon- 
clouds  ! 

We  reached  the  cottage  of  the  Great  Man 
with  the  fresh  laurels.  He  met  us  at  the 
gate.  He  called  us  Jim  and  Bill  and  Frank 
and  Kid  something  or  other.  We  called  him 
Charlie.  And  he  wasn't  the  least  bit  stiff 
or  proud,  though  we  hadn't  the  least  doubt 
that  half  of  Washington  was  in  tears  at  his 
departure  for  the  West. 

The  sudden  flare  of  a  torch  betrayed  his 
moist  eyes  as  he  told  us  how  he  loved  us. 
And  I  'm  sure  he  meant  it.  He  said,  with  that 
Western  drawl  of  his:  "Boys,  while  I  was 
back  there  trying  to  do  a  little  something  for 
you  in  Congress,  I  heard  a  lot  of  swell  bands; 
but  I  did  n't  hear  any  such  music  as  this  little 
old  band  of  ours  has  made  to-night!"     The 


88  The  River  and  I 

unintentional  humor  somehow  did  n't  make 
you  want  to  laugh  at  all. 

We're  all  riding  with  his  outfit;  and  next 
year  we  're  going  to  send  Charlie  back  East 
again.  May  we  all  die  sheepmen  if  we  don't 
— and  that's  the  limit  in  Montana! 

Talking  about  sheepmen,  reminds  me  of 
Joe,  the  big  bronco-buster,  and  his  mot.  I 
was  doing  the  town  with  Joe,  and  he  was 
carefully  educating  me  in  the  Western  mys- 
teries. He  told  me  all  about  "day-wranglers " 
and  "night-hawks"  and  "war-bags"  and 
"round-ups";  showed  me  how  to  tie  a  "bull- 
noose"  and  a  "sheep-shank"  and  a  "Mexican 
hacamore";  put  me  onto  the  twist-of-the- 
wrist  and  the  quick  arm-thrust  that  puts 
half -hitches  'round  a  steer's  legs;  showed 
me  how  a  cowboy  makes  dance  music  with  a 
broom  and  a  mouth-harp — and  many  other 
wonderful  feats,  none  of  which  I  can  myself 
perform. 

I  wanted  to  feel  the  mettle  of  the  big  typical 
fellow,  and  so  I  said  playfully:  "Say,  Joe,  come 
to  confession — you  're  a  sheepman,  now 
are  n't  you?" 


Half- Way  to  the  Moon  91 

He  clanked  down  a  glass  of  long-range 
liquid,  and  glared  down  at  me  with  a  monitory 
forefinger  pointing  straight  between  my  eyes: 
"Now  you  look  here,  Shorty,"  he  drawled; 
"you're  a  friend  of  mine,  and  whatever  you 
say,  goes,  as  long  as  I  ain't  all  caved  in!  But 
you  cut  that  out,  and  don't  you  say  that  out 
loud  again,  or  you  and  me '11  be  having  to 
scrap  the  whole  outfit ! ' ' 

He  resumed  his  glass.  I  told  him,  still 
playfully,  that  a  lot  of  mighty  good  poetry 
had  been  written  about  sheep  and  sheepmen 
and  crooks  and  lambs  and  things  like  that, 
and  that  I  considered  my  question  compli- 
mentary. 

"You  're  talkin'  about  sheepmen  in  the 
old  country,  Shorty,"  he  drawled.  "There 
ain't  any  cattle  ranges  there,  you  know.  Do 
you  know  the  difference  between  a  sheep- 
man in  Scotland,  say,  and  in  Montana?" 

I  did  not. 

"Well,"  he  proceeded,  "over  in  Scotland 
when  a  feller  sees  a  sheepman  coming  down 
the  road  with  his  sheep,  he  says:  'Behold 
the  gentle    shepherd  with    his  fleecy  flock!' 


92  The  River  and  I 

That's  poetry.  Now  in  Montana,  that  same 
feller  says,  when  he  sees  the  same  feller 
coming  over  a  ridge  with  the  same  sheep: 
1  Look  at  that  crazy  blankety -blank  with  his 
woolies!'  That's  fact.  You  mind  what  I 
say,  or  you'll  get  spurred." 

I  don't  quite  agree  with  Joe,  how- 
ever. Once,  lying  in  my  tent  across  the 
river,  I  looked  out  over  the  breaks  through 
that  strange  purple  moonlight,  such  as  I  had 
always  believed  to  exist  only  in  the  staging 
of  a  melodrama,  and  saw  four  thousand  sheep 
descending  to  the  ferry. 

Like  lava  from  a  crater  they  poured  over 
the  slope  above  me;  and  above  them,  seeming 
prodigiously  big  against  the  weird  sky,  went 
the  sheepman  with  his  staff  in  his  hand  and 
a  war-bag  over  his  arm,  while  at  his  heels  a 
wise  collie  followed.  It  was  a  picture  done 
by  chance  very  much  as  Millet  could  have 
done  it.  And  somehow  Joe's  mot  couldn't 
stand  before  that  picture. 

There  is  indeed  a  big  Pindaric  sort  of  poetry 
about  a  plunging  mass  of  cattle.  And  just 
as  truly  there  is  a  sort  of  Theocritus  poetry 


Half- Way  to  the  Moon  95 

about  sheep.  Only  in  the  latter  case,  the 
poetical  vanishing  point  is  farther  away  for 
me  than  is  the  case  with  cattle.  I  think  I 
couldn't  write  very  good  verses  about  a  flock 
of  sheep,  unless  I  were  at  least  five  hundred 
yards  from  them.  I  haven't  figured  the 
exact  distance  as  yet.  But  when  you  have 
a  large  flock  of  sheep  camping  about  you  all 
night,  making  you  eat  fine  sand  and  driving 
you  mad  with  that  most  idiotic  of  all  noises 
(which  happened  once  to  me),  you  don't  get 
up  in  the  morning  quoting  Theocritus.  You 
remember  Joe's  mot! 

We  found  a  convenient  gravel  bar  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  river,  where  we  established 
our  navy-yard.  There  we  proceeded  to  set 
up  the  keel  of  the  Atom  I — a  twenty-foot 
canoe  with  forty-inch  beam,  lightly  ribbed 
with  oak  and  planked  with  quarter-inch 
cypress. 

No  sooner  had  we  screwed  up  the  bolts  in 
the  keel,  than  our  ship-yard  became  a  sort 
of  free  information  bureau.  Every  evening 
the  cable  ferry  brought  over  a  contingent  of 


96  The  River  and  I 

well-wishers,  v/ho  were  ardent  in  their  desire 
to  encourage  us  in  our  undertaking,  which 
was  no  less  than  that  of  making  a  toboggan 
slide  down  the  roof  of  the  continent. 

The  salient  weakness  of  the  genus  homo, 
it  has  always  seemed  to  me,  is  an  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  give  advice.  Through  several 
weeks  of  toil,  we  were  treated  to  a  most  lib- 
eral education  on  marine  matters.  It  ap- 
peared that  we  had  been  laboring  under  a 
fatal  misunderstanding  regarding  the  general 
subject  of  navigation.  Our  style  of  boat 
was  indeed  admirable  —  for  a  lake,  if  you 
please,  but — well,  of  course,  they  did  not  wish 
to  discourage  us.  It  was  quite  possible  that 
we  were  unacquainted  with  the  Upper  Mis- 
souri. Now  the  Upper  River  (hanging  out 
the  bleached  rag  of  a  sympathetic  smile), 
the  Upper  River  was  not  the  Lower  River, 
you  know.  (That  really  did  seem  remarkably 
true,  and  we  became  alarmed.)  The  Upper 
River,  mind  you,  was  terrific.  Why,  those 
frail  ribs  and  that  impossible  planking  would 
go  to  pieces  on  the  first  rock — like  an  egg- 
shell!    Of  course,  we  were  free  to  do  as  we 


:    -  —  .     • 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  99 

pleased — they  would  not  discourage  us  for 
the  world.  And  the  engine!  Gracious! 
Such  a  boat  would  never  stand  the  vibration 
of  a  four-horse,  high-speed  engine  driving  a 
f ourteen-inch  screw !  It  appeared  plainly  that 
we  were  almost  criminally  wrong  in  all  our 
calculations.  Shamefacedly  we  continued  to 
drive  nails  into  the  impossible  hull,  knowing 
full  well — poor  misguided  heroes — that  we 
were  only  fashioning  a  death  trap!  There 
could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  The  free  informa- 
tion bureau  was  unanimous.  It  was  all  very 
pathetic.  Nothing  but  the  tonic  of  an  habit- 
ual morning  swim  in  the  clear  cold  river  kept 
us  game  in  the  face  of  the  inevitable ! 

We  saw  it  all.  With  a  sort  of  forlorn, 
cannon-torn-cavalry-column  hope  we  pushed 
on  with  the  fatal  work.  Never  before  did  I 
appreciate  old  Job  in  the  clutches  of  good 
advice.  I  used  to  accuse  him  of  rabbit 
blood.  In  the  light  of  experience,  I  wish  to 
record  the  fact  that  I  beg  his  pardon.  He 
was  in  the  house  of  his  friends.  I  think 
Job  and  I  understand  each  other  better  now. 
It  was  not  the  boils,  but  the  free  advice! 


ioo  The  River  and  I 

At  last  the  final  nail  was  driven  and  clenched, 
the  canvas  glued  on  and  ironed,  the  engine 
installed.  The  trim,  slim  little  craft  with 
her  admirable  speed  lines,  tapering  fore  and 
aft  like  a  fish,  lay  on  the  ways  ready  for  the 
plunge. 

We  had  arranged  to  christen  her  with  beer. 
The  Kid  stood  at  the  prow  with  the  bottle 
poised,  awaiting  his  cue.  The  little  Cor- 
nishman  knelt  at  the  prow.  He  was  not 
bowed  in  prayer.  He  was  holding  a  bucket 
under  the  soon-to-be-broken  bottle.  "For," 
said  he,  "in  a  country  where  beer  is  so  dear 
and  advice  so  cheap,  let  us  save  the  beer 
that  we  may  be  strong  to  stand  the  advice!" 

The  argument  was  indeed  Socratic. 

"And  now,  little  boat,"  said  I,  in  that  dark 
brown  tone  of  voice  of  which  I  am  particu- 
larly proud,  "be  a  good  girl!  Deliver  me 
not  unto  the  laughter  of  my  good  advisers. 
I  christen  thee  Atom!" 

The  bottle  broke — directly  above  that 
bucket. 

And  now  before  us  lay  the  impossible  as 
plainly  pointed  out,  not  only  by  local  talent, 


Half-Way  to  the  Moon  103 

but  by  no  less  a  man  than  the  august  captain 
of  a  government  snag-boat.  Several  weeks 
before  the  launching,  an  event  had  taken 
place  at  Benton.  The  first  steamboat  for 
sixteen  years  tied  up  there  one  evening.  She 
was  a  government  snag-boat.  Now  a  gov- 
ernment snag-boat  may  be  defined  as  a  boat 
maintained  by  the  government  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  navigating  rivers  and  dodging  snags. 
This  particular  snag-boat,  I  learned  after- 
ward in  the  course  of  a  long  cruise  behind  her, 
holds  the  snag-boat  record.  I  consider  her 
pilot  a  truly  remarkable  man.  He  seemed 
to  have  dodged  them  all. 

All  Benton  turned  out  to  view  the  big 
red  and  white  government  steamer.  There 
was  something  almost  pathetic  about  the 
public  demonstration  when  you  thought 
of  the  good  old  steamboat  days.  During 
her  one  day's  visit  to  the  town,  I  met  the 
captain. 

He  was  very  stiff  and  proud.  He  awed 
me.  I  stood  before  him  fumbling  my  hat. 
Said  I  to  myself:  "The  personage  before  me 
is  more  than  a  snag-boat  captain.     This  is 


104  The  River  and  I 

none  other  than  the  gentleman  who  invented 
the  Missouri  River.  No  doubt  even  now  he 
carries  the  patent  in  his  pocket!" 

"Going  down  river  in  a  power  canoe,  eh?" 
he  growled,  regarding  me  critically.  "Well, 
you  '11  never  get  down!" 

"That  so?"  croaked  I,  endeavoring  to 
swallow  my  Adam's  apple. 

"No,  you  won't!" 

"Why?"  ventured  I  timidly,  almost 
pleadingly;  "Isn't  there — uh — isn't  there — 
uh — water  enough  ?" 

"Water  enough — yes!"  growled  the  per- 
sonage who  invented  the  longest  river  in  the 
world  and  therefore  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about.  "Plenty  of  water — but  you 
wont  find  it!" 

Now  as  the  Atom  slid  into  the  stream,  I 
thought  of  the  captain's  words.  Since  that 
time  the  river  had  fallen  three  feet.  We 
drew  eighteen  inches. 

Sixty-five  days  after  that  oraculous  utter- 
ance of  the  captain,  the  Kid  and  I,  half 
stripped,  sunburned,  sweating  at  the  oars, 
were  forging  slowly  against  a  head  wind  at 


Half- Way  to  the  Moon  105 

the  mouth  of  the  Cheyenne,  sixteen  hun- 
dred miles  below  the  head  of  navigation.  A 
big  white  and  red  steamer  was  creeping  up 
stream  over  the  shallow  crossing  of  the  Chey- 
enne 's  bar,  sounding  every  foot  of  the  water 
fallen   far   below    the    usual    summer    level. 

It  was  the  snag-boat.  Crossing  her  bows 
and  drifting  past  her  slowly,  I  stood  up  and 
shouted  to  the  party  in  the  pilot  house: 

"I  want  to  speak  to  the  captain." 

He  came  out  on  the  hurricane  deck — the 
man  who  invented  the  river.  He  was  still 
stiff  and  proud,  but  a  swift  smile  crossed  his 
face  as  he  looked  down  upon  us,  half -naked 
and  sun-blackened  there  in  our  dinky  little 
craft. 

"Captain,"  I  cried,  and  perhaps  there  was 
the  least  vain-glory  in  me;  "I  talked  to  you 
at  Benton." 

"Yes  sir." 

"Well,  /  have  found  that  water!" 


CHAPTER  IV 


MAKING  A  GETAWAY 


'"TELL  a  Teuton  that  he  can't,  and  very 
likely  he  will  show  you  that  he  can. 
It  's  in  the  blood.  Between  the  prophecy 
of  the  snag-boat  captain  and  my  vain-glori- 
ous answer  at  the  Cheyenne  crossing,  I 
learned  to  respect  the  words  of  the  man  who 
invented  the  eccentric  old  river.  In  the  face 
of  heavy  head  winds,  I  quoted  the  words, 
"You  '11  never  get  down" — and  they  bit  deep 
like  whip  lashes.  On  many  a  sand-bar  and 
gravel  reef,  with  the  channel  far  away,  I 
heard  the  words,  "Plenty  of  water,  yes,  but 
you  won't  find  it!"  And  always  something 
stronger  than  my  muscles  cried  out  within 
me:  "The  devil  I  won't,  0  you  inventor  of 
rain-water  creeks!"  Hour  by  hour,  day  by 
day,  against  almost  continual  head  winds 
and  with  the  lowest  water  in  years,  that  dis- 

106 


Making  a  Getaway  107 

couraging  prophecy  invaded  my  ego  and  was 
repulsed.  And  that  is  why  we  have  pessi- 
mists in  the  world.  A  pessimist  is  merely 
a  counter-irritant. 

I  stood  on  the  bank  for  some  time  after  the 
Atom  I  slid  into  the  water,  admiring  her 
truly  beautiful  lines.  Once  I  was  captain 
of  a  trunk  lid  that  sailed  a  frog-pond 
down  in  Kansas  City;  and  at  that  time  I 
thought  I  knew  the  meaning  of  pride.  I  did 
not.  All  three  of  us  were  a  bit  puffed  up  over 
that  boat.  Something  of  that  pride  that 
goes  before  a  fall  awoke  in  my  captain's 
breast  as  I  loved  her  with  my  eyes — that 
trim,  slim  speed-thing,  tugging  at  her  forward 
line,  graceful  and  slender  and  strong  and  fleet 
as  a  Diana. 

I  said  at  last:  "I  will  now  get  in"  her,  drop 
down  to  the  town  landing,  and  proceed  to 
put  to  shame  a  few  of  these  local  motor- 
tubs  that  make  so  much  fuss  and  don't  get 
anywhere ! ' ' 

I  loved  her  as  a  man  should  love  all  things 
that  are  swift  and  strong  and  honest,  keen  for 
marks  and  goals — a  big,  clean-limbed,  thor- 


108  The  River  and  I 

oughbred  horse  that  will  break  his  heart  to 
get  under  the  wire  first;  a  high-power  rifle, 
slim  of  muzzle,  thick  of  breech,  with  its 
wicked  little  throaty  cry,  doing  its  business 
over  a  flat  trajectory  a  thousand  yards  away: 
I  loved  her  as  a  man  should  love  those. 
Little  did  I  dream  that  she  would  betray  me. 

I  took  in  the  line  and  went  aboard.  At 
that  moment  I  almost  understood  the  snag- 
boat  captain's  bearing.  To  be  master  of  the 
Atom  I  seemed  quite  enough;  but  to  be  the 
really  truly  captain  of  a  big  red  and  white 
snag-boat— it  must  have  been  overwhelming! 

I  dropped  out  into  the  current  that,  fresh 
from  its  plunge  of  four  hundred  feet  in  sixteen 
miles,  ran  briskly.  Everything  was  in  readi- 
ness. I  meant  to  put  a  crimp  in  the  vanity  of 
that  free-information  bureau. 

I  turned  on  the  switch,  opened  the  needle 
valve,  swung  the  throttle  over  to  the  notch 
numbered  with  a  big  "2."  I  placed  the  crank 
on  the  wheel  and  gave  it  a  vigorous  turn. 

"Poof!"  said  the  engine  sweetly,  and  the 
kind  word  encouraged  me  immensely.  Again 
I  cranked. 


Making  a  Getaway  109 

"Poof!    Poof!" 

It  seemed  that  I  had  somehow  misunder- 
stood the  former  communication,  and  it  was 
therefore  repeated  with  emphasis.  Like  a 
model  father  who  walks  the  floor  with  the 
weeping  child,  tenderly  seeking  the  offending 
pin,  I  looked  over  that  engine.  "What  have 
I  neglected?"  said  I.  I  intended  to  be  quite 
logical  and  fair  in  the  matter. 

I  once  presided  over  a  country  newspaper 
that  ran  its  presses  with  a  gasoline  engine 
with  a  most  decided  artistic  temperament. 
That  engine  used  to  have  a  way  of  communing 
silently  with  its  own  soul  right  in  the  middle 
of  press  day.  I  remembered  this  with  fore- 
bodings. I  remembered  how  firm  but  kind 
I  was  obliged  to  be  with  that  old  engine.  I 
remembered  how  it  always  put  its  hands  in 
its  pockets  and  took  an  extended  vacation 
every  time  I  swore  at  it.  I  decided  to  be 
nothing  but  a  perfect  gentleman  with  this 
engine.  I  even  endeavored  to  be  a  jovial 
good  fellow. 

"What  is  it,  Little  One?"  said  I  mentally; 
"does  its  little  carburetor  hurt  it?     Or  did 


no  The  River  and  I 

the  bad  man  strangle  it  with  that  horrid 
old  gasoline?" 

I  tenderly  jiggled  its  air  valve,  fiddled 
gently  with  its  spark-control  lever.  I  cranked 
it  again.  It  barked  at  me  like  a  dog!  I 
had  been  kind  to  it,  and  it  barked  right  in 
my  face.  I  wanted  to  slap  it.  I  lifted  my 
eyes  and  saw  that  the  rapid  current  would 
soon  carry  me  past  the  town  landing.  I 
seized  a  paddle  and  shoved  her  in.  Of  course, 
a  member  of  the  free -information  bureau  was 
at  the  landing.  He  had  with  him  a  bland 
smile  and  a  choice  bit  of  information. 

"Having  trouble  with  your  engine,  aren't 
you?"  he  said  as  I  leaped  ashore  with  the 
line.  "There  must  be  something  wrong 
with  it!"  The  remark  was  indeed  illuminat- 
ing. It  struck  me  with  the  force  of  an  in- 
spiration.    It  seemed  so  true. 

"Strange  that  I  had  n't  thought  of  that!" 
I  remarked.  "That  really  must  be  the 
trouble — there  's  something  wrong  with  it. 
Thanks!" 

I  tied  the  boat  and  went  up-town,  hoping 
to  sidetrack  the  benevolent  member  of  that 


Making  a  Getaway 


in 


ubiquitous  bureau.  When  I  returned,  I 
found  half  a  dozen  other  benevolent  members 
at  the  landing.  They  were  holding  a  con- 
sultation, evidently;  and  the  very  air  felt 
gummy  with  latent  advice. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  engine?" 
they  chorused. 

"Why,  there  's  something  wrong  with  it!" 
I  explained  cheerfully,  as  I  went  aboard 
again.  I  began  to  crank,  praying  steadily 
for  a  miracle.  Now  and  then  I  managed  to 
coax  forth  a  gaseous  chortle  or  two.  The 
convention  on  the  landing  understood  every 
chortle  in  a  truly  marvellous  way. 

"It's  the  spark-plug,  that's  sure!"  an- 
nounced one  with  an  air  of  finality.  "When 
an  engine  has  run  for  a  while  (!)  the  spark- 
plug gets  all  smutted  up.  Have  you  cleaned 
your  spark-plug? " 

"No  Jim!"  contradicted  another,  "it's 
all  in  the  oil  feed!  Look  how  she  puffs! 
W'y  it  's  in  the  oil  feed — plain  as  day!  Now 
if  you  '11  take  off  that  carburetor  and " 

I  cranked  on  heroically. 

"It's  in  the  timer,"  volunteered  another. 


ii2  The  River  and  I 

"You  see  that  little  brass  lever  back  there? 
Well,  you  take  and  remove  that  and  you  '11 
find  that " 

I  cranked  on  shamelessly. 

"The  batteries  ain't  no  good!"  growled 
a  man  with  a  big  voice  that  reminded  me 
of  a  bass-drum  booming  up  among  the  wind 
instruments  in  a  medley.  Like  the  barber 
who  owned  the  white  owl,  I  stuck  to  my 
business.     I  cranked  on. 

"It  ain't  in  them  batteries — them  batteries 
is  all  right!"  piped  a  weazened  little  man  who 
had  been  grinning  wisely  at  the  lack  of  me- 
chanical ability  so  shamelessly  exposed  by  his 
fellows.  "Now  in  a  jump-spark  engine," 
he  explained  leisurely,  with  a  knowing  squint 
of  his  eyes  and  an  uplifted  explanatory 
forefinger:  "in  a  jump-spark  engine,  gentle- 
men, there  is  a  number  of  things  to  consider. 
Now  if  you  '11  take  and  remove  that  cylinder- 
head,  pull  out  the  piston,  and " 

The  voice  of  the  expounder  was  suddenly 
drowned  out  by  the  earsplitting  rapid-fire 
of  the  exhaust!  The  miracle  had  happened! 
Hooray ! 


Making  a  Getaway  113 

I  grasped  the  steering  cords  and  jammed 
her  rudder  hard  to  port.  Her  fourteen-inch 
screw,  suddenly  started  at  full  speed  ahead, 
made  the  light,  slim  craft  leap  like  a  spike- 
spurred  horse. 

But  the  turn  was  too  short.  She  thrust  her 
sharp  haughty  nose  into  the  air  like  an  offended 
lady,  and  started  up  the  bank  after  that  in- 
formation bureau.  If  a  tree  had  been  con- 
venient, I  think  she  would  have  climbed  it. 

I  shut  her  down. 

"She  went  that  time!"  chorused  the  infor- 
mation bureau.  Coming  from  an  informa- 
tion bureau,  the  statement  was  marvellously 
correct.  But  I  had  suddenly  become  too 
glad-hearted  for  a  sharp  retort. 

"If  you  will  please  throw  me  the  line,  and 
push  me  off,"  I  said  confidently,  "I  '11  drop 
out  into  the  current." 

I  dropped  out. 

"Now  for  putting  a  crimp  in  some  people's 
vanity!"  I  exulted. 

I  cranked.  Nothing  doing!  I  cranked 
some  more.  No  news  from  the  crimping 
department.     I   continued   to   crank;   also,    I 


H4  The  River  and  I 

continued  to  drift.  Somehow  that  current 
seemed  to  have  increased  alarmingly  in  speed. 
I  thought  I  heard  a  sound  of  merriment. 
I  looked  up.  The  little  weazened  man  was 
gesticulating  wildly  with  that  forefinger  of 
his.  He  was  explaining  something.  The 
information  bureau,  steadily  dwindling  into 
the  distance,  was  not  listening.  It  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  itself  immensely. 

I  swallowed  a  half-spoken  word  that  tasted 
bitter  as  it  went  down.  Then  I  cranked 
again.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  else  to 
do.  It  was  a  hot  day;  hot  sweat  blinded  me, 
and  trickled  off  the  tip  of  my  nose.  My 
hands  began  to  develop  blisters.  Finally,  a 
deep  disgust  seized  me.  I  once  saw  a  tender- 
hearted lady  on  her  knees  in  the  dust  before 
a  balky  auto.  I  remembered  her  half -sobbed 
words:  "  You  mean  thing,  you  I  What  is  the 
matter  with  you,  anyway!  Oh,  you  mean, 
mean  thing!" 

I  sat  down  in  front  of  that  engine  and 
abandoned  myself  to  a  great  feeling  of  tender- 
ness and  chivalry  for  that  unfortunate  lady. 
In  that  moment  I  believe  I  would  have  fought 


Making  a  Getaway  115 

a  bear  for  her!  Oh  that  all  the  gasoline 
engines  in  the  world  could  be  concentrated 
somehow  into  one  big  woolly,  scary  black 
bear,  how  I  could  have  set  my  teeth  in  its 
neck  and  died  chewing ! 

I  heard  a  roaring  of  waters  that  broke  my 
vision  of  bear  fights  and  gentle  ladies  in  dis- 
tress. A  hundred  yards  ahead  of  me  I  saw 
rapids.  The  words  of  the  information  bureau 
came  back  to  me  with  terrible  distinctness: 
"Why,  her  light  timbers  will  go  to  pieces  on 
the  first  rock ! ' ' 

Although  I  am  no  hero,  I  did  n't  get  fright- 
ened. I  got  sore.  "Go  ahead,  and  smash 
yourself  up,  if  you  like!"  I  cried  to  the  balky 
craft.  And  then  I  waited  to  see  her  do  it. 
She  swung  'round  sharply  with  the  first  suck 
of  the  rapids,  struck  a  rock,  side-stepped, 
struck  another,  and  went  on  down,  grinding 
and  dragging  on  a  stony  reef. 

It  suddenly  came  to  me  that  this  was  what 
they  called  the  Grocondunez  Rapids.  I  re- 
membered that  they  said  the  name  meant 
"the  big  bridge  of  the  nose. "  The  name  had 
a    powerful    fascination    for    me — I    wanted 


n6  The  River  and  I 

to  hit  something  good  and  hard  somewhere 
in  that  region ! 

Finally  she  swung  clear  of  the  reef,  caught 
the  swirl  of  the  main  current,  and  started  for 
New  Orleans  with  the  bit  in  her  teeth.  I 
was  n't  ready  to  arrive  in  New  Orleans  at 
once;  I  had  made  other  arrangements.  So 
I  grasped  a  paddle  and  drove  her  into  shallow 
water.  I  leaped  out,  waist-deep  in  the  cold 
stream,  and  threw  my  weight  against  her. 
Pantingly,  I  wondered  what  was  the  exact 
distance  to  the  nearest  axe.  I  resolved  to  crank 
her  once  more  and  then  for  the  axe  hunt ! 

I  leaned  over  the  gunwale  and  began  to 
grind.  For  the  life  of  me,  I  don't  know  just 
what  I  did  to  her;  but  it  seemed  that  she  had 
taken  some  offence.  Without  the  least  warn- 
ing, she  leaped  forward  at  three-quarter  speed, 
and  started  up  stream  with  that  haughty  head 
of  hers  thrust  skyward! 

I  clung  desperately  to  her  gunwale,  and  she 
dragged  me  insultingly  in  the  drink!  She 
made  a  soppy  rag  of  me!  I  managed  to 
scramble  aboard — something  after  the  fashion 
of  a  bronco-buster  who  mounts  at  a  gallop. 


Making  a  Getaway  117 

But  the  way  she  travelled!  I  forgot  the 
ducking  and  forgave  her  with  all  my  heart. 
I  held  her  nose  well  out  into  the  channel 
where  the  current  ran  with  swells,  though 
no  wind  blew. 

Bucking  the  rapids,  she  split  the  fast  water 
over  her  nose  and  sent  it  aft  in  two  clean-cut 
masses,  that  hissed  about  her  like  angry 
skirts.  A  light,  V-shaped  wake  spread  after, 
scarcely  agitating  the  surface.  She  dragged 
no  water.  There  was  no  churning  at  her 
stern.  Only  the  dull,  subaqueous  drone,  felt 
rather  than  heard  beneath  the  rapid  banging  of 
her  exhaust,  told  me  how  the  honest  little 
screw  thrust  hard. 

I  pushed  the  spark-lever  close  to  the  revers- 
ing point,  and  opened  her  throttle  wide. 
This  acted  like  a  bottle-fly  on  the  flank  of  a 
spirited  mare.  She  shook  herself,  quivering 
through  all  her  light,  pliable  construction, 
lifted  her  prow  another  inch  or  two,  and  flung 
the  rapids  behind  her. 

Slim,  fleet,  clean-heeled,  and  hungry  for 
distance,  she  raced  toward  the  Benton  landing 
two  miles  up. 


n8  The  River  and  I 

In  my  anxiety  to  show  her  to  the  benevo- 
lent ones,  I  left  the  current  and  took  a  crosscut 
over  a  rocky  ford.  Pebbles  flung  from  her 
pounding  heels  showered  down  upon  me.  I 
climbed  forward  and  let  her  hammer  away. 
She  cleared  the  gravel  bar,  and  as  she  plunged 
past  the  now  silent  information  bureau  on  the 
landing,  condescendingly  I  waved  a  hand  at 
them  and  went  on  splitting  water. 

We  shot  under  the  bridge,  forged  into  the 
crossing  current,  passed  the  big  brick  hotel, 
where  a  considerable  number  came  out  to 
salute  us.  They  dubbed  her  the  fastest 
boat  that  had  ever  climbed  that  current,  I 
learned  afterward.  Alas!  I  was  getting  my 
triumph  early  and  in  one  big  chunk!  I 
figure  that  that  .one  huge  breakfast  of  tri- 
umph, if  properly  distributed,  would  have  fed 
me  through  the  whole  two  thousand  miles 
of  back-strain  and  muscle-cramp.  And  yet, 
through  all  the  days  of  snail-paced  toil  that 
followed,  I  remained  truly  thankful  for  that 
early  breakfast. 

The  Kid  and  the  Cornishman,  busy  in 
camp  with  the  packing  for  the  voyage,  had 


Making  a  Getaway  119 

shared  in  the  gloom  of  my  temporary  defeat. 
But  now,  as  I  plunged  past  them,  I  could  see 
them  leaping  into  the  air  and  cracking  their 
heels  together  with  delight.  They  had  wet 
every  plank  of  her  with  their  sweat,  and  they 
were  as  proud  as  I.  In  the  light  of  the  fol- 
lowing days,  their  delight  dwindled  into  a 
pathetic  thing. 

I  held  her  on  her  course  up-stream,  reached 
the  bend  a  mile  above,  swung  round  and — 
discovered  that  she  had  only  then  begun  to 
lift  her  heels!  With  the  rapid  current  to 
aid,  her  speed  was  truly  wonderful.  She 
could  have  kept  pace  with  any  respectable 
freight  train  at  least. 

I  indulged  in  a  little  feverish  mental  calcu- 
lation. She  could  make,  with  the  minimum 
current,  eighteen  miles  per  hour.  Every 
day  meant  fifteen  hours  of  light.  Sioux  City 
was  two  thousand  miles  away.  We  could 
reach  Sioux  City  easily  in  ten  days  of  actual 
running ! 

While  I  was  covering  that  fast  mile  back 
to  camp,  I  saw  the  Atom  I  passing  Sioux 
City   with    an    air   of   high-nosed    contempt. 


120  The  River  and  I 

I  developed  a  sort  of  unreasoning  hunger 
for  New  Orleans — a  kind  of  violent  thirst 
for  the  Gulf  of  Mexico!  Nothing  short  of 
these,  it  seemed  to  me,  could  be  worthy  of  so 
fleet  a  craft.  When  I  shoved  her  nose  into 
the  landing,  I  found  that  my  companions 
thoroughly  agreed  with  me. 

All  that  night  in  my  restless  sleep  I  drove 
speed  boats  at  a  terrific  pace  through  im- 
possible channels  and  rock-toothed  Scyllas; 
and  the  little  Cornishman  fought  angry  seas 
and  heard  a  dream-wind  shrieking  in  the 
cordage,  and  felt  the  salt  spume  on  his  face. 
"I  wonder  why  I  am  always  dreaming  that," 
he  said.  "Atavism,"  I  ventured;  and  he 
regarded  me  narrowly,  as  though  I  might 
be  maligning  his  character  in  some  way. 

At  dawn  we  had  already  eaten  and  were 
loading  the  Atom  for  the  voyage.  With  her 
cargo  she  drew  eighteen  inches  of  water.  At 
full  speed,  she  would  squat  four  inches.  It  was 
the  first  of  August  and  the  water,  which  had 
reached  in  the  spring  its  highest  point  for 
twenty  years,  had  been  falling  rapidly,  and 
now  promised  to  go  far  below  the  average 


Making  a  Getaway  123 

low-water  mark.  We  had  ahead  of  us  a  long 
voyage,  every  mile  of  which  was  strange 
water. 

Once  again  I  went  over  that  feverish  cal- 
culation. This  time  I  was  more  generous. 
I  decided  upon  fifteen  days.  The  cable 
ferry  towed  us  out  beyond  the  gravel  bars 
that,  during  the  last  week,  had  been  slowly 
lifting  their  bleached  masses  higher.  In 
mid-stream  we  cut  loose. 

At  the  first  turn  the  engine  started.  We 
were  going  at  a  good  half -speed  clip,  when 
suddenly  the  engine  changed  its  mind. 
"Squash!"  it  said  wearily.  Then  it  let  off  a 
gasoline  sigh  and  went  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 
We  had  reached  the  brick  hotel.  We  pulled 
in  with  the  paddles  and  tied  up.  The  in- 
formation bureau  was  there,  and  at  once 
went  into  consultation. 

"I'm  looking  for  an  engine  doctor,"  I  said. 
"How  about  Mr.  Blank?  They  tell  me  he 
knows  the  unknowable." 

"Best  man  with  an  engine  in  town,"  said 
one. 

"For  gracious'  sake,  keep  that  man  away 


T24  The  River  and  I 

from  your  engine  if  you  don't  want  it  ruined! " 
said  others.  A  man  who  can  arouse  a  diver- 
sity of  opinions  is  at  least  a  man  of  originality. 
I  went  after  that  man. 

He  came — with  an  air  of  mystery  and  a 
monkey  wrench.  He  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
patient  (how  that  word  does  fit!)  and  after 
some  time  he  said :  ' '  Ilm  I ' ' 

He  unscrewed  this — and  whistled  awhile; 
he  unscrewed  that— and  whistled  some  more. 
Then  he  screwed  up  both  this  and  that  and 
cranked  her. 

' '  Phew-oo-oo-oo ! ' '  said  the  engine.  Whereat 
the  doctor  smiled  knowingly.  It  was  plain 
that  she  was  an  open  book  to  him. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  said  I,  with  that 
tone  of  voice  you  use  in  a  sick-room. 

It  appeared  to  be  appendicitis. 

"Spark-plug,"  muttered  the  doctor. 

"Shall  I  get  another?"  I  asked,  half  apolo- 
getically. 

"Better,"  grunted  the  doctor. 

I  chased  down  an  automobile  owner,  and 
a  launch  owner  and  a  man  who  had  a  small 
pumping-engine.      I     was     eloquent     in     my 


Making  a  Getaway  125 

appeal  for  spark-plugs.  I  made  a  very  fine 
collection  of  them1  and  hastened  back  to  the 
doctor.  He  did  n't  seem  to  appreciate  my 
efforts.  He  had  the  patient  on  the  operating- 
table.  Everything  was  either  unscrewed  or 
pulled  out.  He  was  carefully  scrutinizing 
the  wreck — for  more  things  to  screw  out ! 

"Locate  the  trouble?"  I  ventured. 

"Buzzer  's  out  of  whack,"  replied  the  Man 
of  Awe;  "Have  to  get  another  spark-coil!" 
In  times  of  sickness  even  the  sternest  man 
submits  to  medical  tyranny.  I  ran  down  a 
man  who  once  owned  a  power  boat,  and  he 
had  a  spark-coil.  He  finally  agreed  to  forego 
the  pleasure  of  possessing  it  for  a  suitable 
reward.  Considering  the  size  of  that  reward, 
he  had  undoubtedly  become  greatly  attached 
to  his  spark-coil! 

I  returned  in  triumph  to  the  doctor.  He 
was  now  screwing  up  all  that  he  had  previously 
unscrewed. 

"Think  she  '11  go  now?"  I  pleaded. 

1  Dear  Reader:  Should  you  undertake  the  Missouri  River 
trip,  don't  lay  anything  out  on  spark-plugs.  I  sowed  them 
all  along  up  there.  Take  a  drag-net.  You  will  scoop  up 
several  hundred  dry  batteries,  but  don't  mind  them;  they  are 
probably  spoiled. 


126  The  River  and  I 

He  screwed  up  several  dozen  things,  and 
whistled  a  while.  Then  the  oracle  gave  voice: 
"'Fraid  the  batteries  won't  do;  they  're  awful 
weak!" 

With  a  bitter  heart,  I  turned  on  my  heel 
and  went  forth  once  more.  Electrical  supplies 
were  not  on  sale  at  any  of  the  stores.  But  I 
found  a  number  of  gentlemen  who  were  evi- 
dently connoisseurs  in  the  battery  business. 
They  had  batteries  of  which  they  were  ex- 
tremely fond.  They  parted  with  some  of 
superior  quality  upon  the  consideration  of  a 
friendly  regard  for  me — and  a  slight  emolu- 
ment on  my  part.  I  was  evidently  very 
popular. 

At  a  breathless  speed  I  returned  to — not  to 
the  doctor.  He  had  vanished.  Rumor  had 
it  that  he  had  gone  home  to  lunch,  for  the  sun 
was  now  high.  So  far  as  I  know,  he  is  still 
at  lunch. 

Several  things  were  yet  unscrewed.  I  fell 
to  work.  Wherever  anything  seemed  to  make 
a  snug  fit,  I  screwed  it  in.  Other  remaining 
things  I  drove  into  convenient  holes.  All 
the  while  I  begged  blind  fate  to  guide  me. 


Making  a  Getaway  129 

Then  I  connected  the  batteries,  supplied  the 
new  spark-coil,  selected  a  new  spark-plug  at 
random,  and  screwed  it  in. 

Having  done  various  things,  I  carefully 
surveyed  my  environs  for  a  lady.  There 
were  no  ladies  present,  so  I  spoke  out  freely. 
"And  now,"  said  I,  having  exhausted  my 
vocabulary,  "I  shall   crank!" 

Bill  and  the  Kid  sat  on  a  pile  of  rocks 
looking  very  sullen.  For  some  reason  or 
other  they  seemed  to  doubt  that  engine. 
I  don't  know  how  long  I  cranked.  I  know 
only  that  the  impossible  happened.  The 
boat  started  for  the  hotel  piazza! 

I  did  n't  shut  her  down  this  time.  I  leaped 
out  and  took  her  by  the  nose.  Putting  our 
shoulders  against  the  power  of  the  screw, 
we  walked  her  out  into  the  current,  headed 
her  down  stream,  and  scrambled  in,  wet  to  the 
ears. 

My  logbook  speaks  for  that  day  as  follows: 
"Left  Benton  at  2:30  p.m.  Gypsied  along 
under  half  gasoline  for  several  hours,  safely 
crossing  the  Shonkin  and  Grocondunez  bars. 
Struck  a  rock  in  Fontenelle  Rapids  at  4:30, 


i3°  The  River  and  I 

taking  off  rudder.  Landed  with  difficulty 
on  a  gravel-bar  and  repaired  damages.  At 
5:30  engine  bucked.  A  heavy  wind  from  the 
west  beat  us  against  a  ragged  shore  for  an 
hour  and  a  half.  Impossible  to  proceed 
without  power,  except  by  cordelling — which 
we  did,  walking  waist-deep  in  the  water  much 
of  the  time.  Paddles  useless  in  such  a  head 
wind.  The  wind  falling  at  sunset,  we  drifted, 
again  losing  our  rudder  while  shooting  Brule 
Rapids.  Tied  up  at  the  head  of  Black 
Bluffs  Rapids  at  dusk,  having  made  twenty 
miles  out  of  two  thousand  for  the  first  day's 
run.  Have  to  extend  that  fifteen  days! 
Just  the  same,  that  information  bureau  saw  us 
leave  under  power!" 


CHAPTER  V 

THROUGH  THE  REGION  OF  WEIR 

A  A  fE  awoke  with  light  hearts  on  the  second 
morning  of  the  voyage.  All  about 
us  was  the  sacred  silence  of  the  wilderness 
dawn.  The  coming  sun  had  smitten  the  chill 
night  air  into  a  ghostly  fog  that  lay  upon  the 
valley  like  a  fairy  lake. 

We  were  at  the  rim  of  the  Bad  Lands  and 
there  were  no  birds  to  sing;  but  crows, 
wheeling  about  a  sandstone  summit,  flung 
doleful  voices  downward  into  the  morning 
hush — the  spirit  of  the  place  grown  vocal. 

Cloaked   with   the   fog,    our  breakfast   fire 

of  driftwood  glowed  ruddily.     What  is  there 

about  the  tang  of  wood-smoke  in  a  lonesome 

place  that  fills  one  with  glories  that  seem  half 

memory  and  half  dream?     Crouched  on  my 

haunches,   shivering  just  enough  to  feel  the 

beauty  there  is  in  fire,  I  needed  only  to  close 

131 


132  The  River  and  I 

my  eyes,  smarting  with  the  smoke,  to  feel 
myself  the  first  man  huddled  close  to  the 
first  flame,  blooming  like  a  mystic  flower  in 
the  chill  dawn  of  the  world! 

Perhaps  that  is  what  an  outing  is  for — to 
strip  one  down  to  the  lean  essentials,  press  in 
upon  one  the  glorious  privilege  of  being 
one's  self,  unique  in  all  the  universe  of  in- 
numerable unique  things.  Crouched  close  to 
your  wilderness  campfire,  the  great  Vision 
comes  easily  out  of  the  smoke.  Once  again 
you  feel  the  bigness  of  your  world,  the  tre- 
mendous significance  of  everything  in  it — 
including  yourself — and  a  far-seeing  sadness 
grips  you.  Living  in  the  flesh  seems  so 
transient,  almost  a  pitiful  thing  in  the  last 
analysis.  But  somehow  you  feel  that  there  is 
something  bigger — not  beyond  it,  but  all 
about  it  continually.  And  you  wonder  that 
you  ever  hated  anyone.  You  know,  some- 
how, there  in  the  smoky  silence,  why  men  are 
noble  or  ignoble;  why  they  lie  or  die  for  a 
principle;  why  they  kill,  or  suffer  martyr- 
dom; why  they  love  and  hate  and  fight; 
why  women  smile  under  burdens,  sin  splen- 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      133 

didly  or  sordidly — and  why  hearts  sometimes 
break. 

And  expanded  by  the  bigness  of  the  empty 
silent  spaces  about  you,  like  a  spirit  independ- 
ent of  it  and  outside  of  it  all,  you  love  the 
great  red  straining  Heart  of  Man  more  than 
you  could  ever  love  it  at  your  desk  in  town. 
And  you  want  to  get  up  and  move — push  on 
through  purple  distances — whither?  Oh, 
anywhere  will  do!  What  you  seek  is  at  the 
end  of  the  rainbow;  it  is  in  the  azure  of  dis- 
tance; it  is  just  behind  the  glow  of  the  sunset, 
and  close  under  the  dawn.  And  the  glorious 
thing  about  it  is  that  you  know  you  '11  never 
find  it  until  you  reach  that  lone,  ghostly  land 
where  the  North  Star  sets,  perhaps.  You  're 
merely  glad  to  know  that  you  're  not  a  vege- 
table— and  that  the  trail  never  really  ends 
anywhere. 

Just  now,  however,  the  longing  for  the 
abstract  had  the  semblance  of  a  longing  for 
the  concrete.  It  always  has  that  semblance, 
for  that  matter.  You  never  really  want  what 
you  think  you  are  seeking.  Touch  the  sub- 
stance— and  away  you  go  after  the  shadow ! 


134  The  River  and  I 

Around  the  bend  lay  Sioux  City.  Around 
what  bend?  What  matter?  Somewhere 
down  stream  the  last  bend  lay,  and  in 
between  lay  the  playing  of  the  game.  Any 
bend  will  do  to  sail  around!  There  's  a 
lot  of  fun  in  merely  being  able  to  move 
about  and  do  things.  For  this  reason  I  am 
overwhelmed  with  gratitude  whenever  I 
think  that,  through  some  slight  error  in  the 
cosmic  process,  the  life  forces  that  glow  in 
me  might  have  been  flung  into  a  turnip — 
but  were  rit  I  The  thought  is  truly  appalling 
— is  n't  it?  The  avoidance  of  that  one  awful 
possibility  is  enough  to  make  any  man  feel 
lucky  all  his  life.  It 's  such  fun  to  waken  in 
the  morning  with  all  your  legs  and  arms  and 
eyes  and  ears  about  you,  waiting  to  be  used 
again!  So  strong  was  this  thought  in  me 
when  we  cast  off,  that  even  the  memory  of 
Bill's  amateurish  pancakes  could  n't  keep 
back  the  whistle. 

The  current  of  the  Black  Bluffs  Rapids 
whisked  us  from  the  bank  with  a  giddy  speed, 
spun  us  about  a  right-angled  bend,  and  landed 
us   in   a   long   quiet   lake.     Contrary   to   the 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      135 

average  opinion,  the  Upper  Missouri  is  merely 
a  succession  of  lakes  and  rapids.  In  the  low- 
water  season,  this  statement  should  be  itali- 
cised. When  you  are  pushing  down  with  the 
power  of  your  arms  alone  the  rapids  show 
you  how  fast  you  want  to  go,  and  the  lakes 
show  you  that  you  can't  go  that  fast.  For 
the  teaching  of  patience,  the  arrangement  is 
admirable.  But  when  head  winds  blow,  a 
three-mile  reach  means  about  a  two-hour 
fight. 

This  being  a  very  invigorating  morning, 
however,  the  engine  decided  to  take  a  con- 
stitutional. It  ran.  Below  the  mouth  of  the 
Marias  River,  twenty  minutes  later,  we 
grounded  on  Archer's  Bar  and  shut  down. 
After  dragging  her  off  the  gravel,  we  dis- 
covered that  the  engine  wished  to  sleep. 
No  amount  of  cranking  could  arouse  it.  Now 
and  then  it  would  say  "squash,"  feebly  rolling 
its  wheel  a  revolution  or  two — like  a  sleepy- 
head brushing  off  a  fly  with  a  languid  hand. 

A  light  breeze  had  sprung  up  out  of  the  west. 
The  stream  ran  east  and  northeast.  We 
hastily  rigged  a  tarp  on  a  pair  of  oars  spliced 


136  The  River  and  I 

for  a  mast,  and  proceeded  at  a  care-free  pace. 
The  light  breeze  scarcely  ruffled  the  surface 
of  the  slow  stream; 

" yet  still  the  sail  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon." 

In  the  lazy  heat  of  the  mounting  sun, 
tempered  by  the  cool  river  draught,  the  yel- 
low sandstone  bluffs,  whimsically  decorated 
with  sparse  patches  of  greenery,  seemed  to 
waver  as  though  seen  through  shimmering 
silken  gauze.  And  over  it  all  was  the  hush 
of  a  dream,  except  when,  in  a  spasmodic  fresh- 
ening of  the  breeze,  the  rude  mast  creaked 
and  a  sleepy  watery  murmur  grew  up  for  a 
moment  at  the  wake. 

Now  and  then  at  a  break  in  the  bluffs, 
where  a  little  coulee  entered  the  stream,  the 
gray  masses  of  the  bull-berry  bushes  lifted 
like  smoke,  and  from  them,  flame-like,  flashed 
the  vivid  scarlet  of  the  berry-clusters,  smiting 
the  general  dreaminess  like  a  haughty  cry 
in  a  silence. 

A  wilderness  indeed !  It  seemed  that  waste 
land  of  which  Tennyson  sang,  "where  no  man 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      137 

comes  nor  hath  come  since  the  making  of  the 
world."  I  thought  of  the  steamboats  and 
the  mackinaws  and  the  keel-boats  and  the 
thousands  of  men  who  had  pushed  through 
this  dream-world  and  the  thought  was  uncon- 
vincing. Fairies  may  have  lived  here,  indeed; 
and  in  the  youth  of  the  world,  a  glad  young 
race  of  gods  might  have  dreamed  gloriously 
among  the  yellow  crags.  But  surely  we  were 
the  first  men  who  had  ever  passed  that  way — 
and  should  be  the  last. 

Suddenly  the  light  breeze  boomed  up  into  a 
gale.  The  Atom,  with  bellying  sail,  leaped 
forward  down  the  roughening  water,  swung 
about  a  bend,  raced  with  a  quartering  wind 
down  the  next  reach,  shot  across  another 
bend — and  lay  drifting  in  a  golden  calm. 
Still  above  us  the  great  wind  buzzed  in  the 
crags  like  a  swarm  of  giant  bees,  and  the  waters 
about  us  lay  like  a  sheet  of  flawless  glass. 

With  paddles  we  pushed  on  lazily  for  an 
hour.  At  the  next  bend,  where  the  river 
turned  into  the  west,  the  great  gale  that  had 
been  roaring  above  us,  suddenly  struck  us 
full  in  front.     Sucking  up  river  between  the 


138  The  River  and  I 

wall  rocks  on  either  side,  its  force  was  terrific. 
You  tried  to  talk  while  facing  it,  and  it  took 
your  breath  away.  In  a  few  minutes,  in 
spite  of  our  efforts  with  the  paddles,  we  lay 
pounding  on  the  shallows  of  the  opposite 
shore. 

We  got  out.  Two  went  forward  with  the 
line  and  the  third  pushed  at  the  stern.  Pro- 
gress was  slow — no  more  than  a  mile  an  hour. 
The  clear  water  of  the  upper  river  is  always 
cold,  and  the  great  wind  chilled  the  air. 
Even  under  the  August  noon  it  took  brisk 
work  to  keep  one's  teeth  from  chattering. 
The  bank  we  were  following  became  a  preci- 
pice rising  sheer  from  the  river's  edge,  and 
the  water  deepened  until  we  could  no  longer 
wade.  We  got  in  and  poled  on  to  the  next 
shallows,  often  for  many  minutes  at  a  time 
barely  holding  our  own  against  the  stiff 
gusts.  For  two  hours  we  dragged  the  heavily 
laden  boat,  sometimes  walking  the  bank, 
sometimes  wading  in  mid-stream,  sometimes 
poling,  often  swimming  with  the  line  from 
one  shallow  to  another.  And  the  struggle 
ended  as  suddenly  as  it  began.     Upon  round- 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      139 

ing  the  second  bend  the  head  wind  became  a 
stern  wind,  driving  us  on  at  a  jolly  clip  until 
nightfall. 

During  the  late  afternoon,  we  came  upon 
a  place  where  the  Great  Northern  Railroad 
touches  the  river  for  the  last  time  in  five 
hundred  miles.  Here  we  saw  two  Italian 
section  hands  whiling  away  their  Sunday  with 
fishing  rods.  I  went  ashore,  hoping  to  buy 
some  fish.  Neither  of  the  two  could  speak 
English,  and  Italian  sounds  to  me  merely 
like  an  unintelligible  singing.  However,  they 
gave  me  to  understand  that  the  fish  were  not 
for  sale,  and  my  proffered  coin  had  no  persua- 
sive powers. 

Still  wanting  those  fish,  I  rolled  a  smoke, 
carelessly  whistling  the  while  a  strain  from 
an  opera  I  had  once  heard.  For  some  reason 
or  other  that  strain  had  been  in  my  head  all 
day.  I  had  gotten  up  in  the  morning  with  it ; 
I  had  whistled  it  during  the  fight  with  the 
head  wind.  The  Kid  called  it  "that  Dago 
tune."  I  think  it  was  something  from  II 
Trovatore. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  little  Italians  dropped 


140  The  River  and  I 

his  rod,  stood  up  to  his  full  height,  lifted  his 
arms  very  much  after  the  manner  of  an  or- 
chestra leader  and  joined  in  with  me.  I 
stopped — because  I  saw  that  he  could  whistle. 
He  carried  it  on  with  much  expression  to  the 
last  thin  note  with  all  the  ache  of  the  world  in 
it.     And  then  he  grinned  at  me. 

"Verdi!"  he  said  sweetly. 

I  applauded.  Whereat  the  little  Italian 
produced  a  bag  of  tobacco.  We  sat  down  on 
the  rocks  and  smoked  together,  holding  a 
wordless  but  perfectly  intelligible  conver- 
sation of  pleasant  grins. 

That  night  we  had  fish  for  supper!  I  got 
them  for  a  song — or,  rather,  for  a  whistle.  I 
was  fed  with  more  than  fish.  And  I  went  to 
sleep  that  night  with  a  glorious  thought  for  a 
pillow:  Truth  expressed  as  Art  is  the  univer- 
sal language.  One  immortal  strain  from 
Verdi,  poorly  whistled  in  a  wilderness,  had 
made  a  Dago  and  a  Dutchman  brothers! 

Scarcely  had  the  crackling  of  the  ruddy  log 
lulled  us  to  sleep,  when  the  night  had  flitted 
over  like  a  shadow,  and  we  were  cooking 
breakfast.     A  lone,  gray  wolf,  sitting  on  his 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      141 

haunches  a  hundred  paces  away,  regarded 
us  curiously.  Doubtless  we  were  new  to  his 
generation;  for  in  the  evening  dusk  we  had 
drifted  well  into  the  Bad  Lands. 

Bad   Lands?     Rather    the    Land  of  Awe! 

A  light  stern  wind  came  up  with  the  sun. 
During  the  previous  evening  we  had  rigged  a 
cat-sail,  and  noiselessly  we  glided  down  the 
glinting  trail  of  crystal  into  the  "Region  of 
Weir." 

On  either  hand  the  sandstone  cliffs  reared 
their  yellow  masses  against  the  cloudless  sky. 
Worn  by  the  ebbing  floods  of  a  prehistoric 
sea,  carved  by  the  winds  and  rains  of  ages, 
they  presented  a  panorama  of  wonders. 

Rows  of  huge  colonial  mansions  with 
pillared  porticoes  looked  from  their  dizzy 
terraces  across  the  stream  to  where  soaring 
mosques  and  mystic  domes  of  worship  caught 
the  sun.  It  was  all  like  the  visible  dream  of 
a  master  architect  gone  mad.  Gaunt,  sinister 
ruins  of  mediaeval  castles  sprawled  down  the 
slopes  of  unassailable  summits.  Grim  brown 
towers,  haughtily  crenellated,  scowled  defiance 
on   the   unappearing   foe.     Titanic   stools   of 


142  The  River  and  I 

stone  dotted  barren  garden  slopes,  where 
surely  gods  had  once  strolled  in  that  far  time 
when  the  stars  sang  and  the  moon  was  young. 
Dark  red  walls  of  regularly  laid  stone — huge 
as  that  the  Chinese  flung  before  the  advance  of 
the  Northern  hordes — held  imaginary  empires 
asunder.  Poised  on  a  dizzy  peak,  Jove's 
eagle  stared  into  the  eye  of  the  sun,  and  raised 
his  wings  for  the  flight  deferred  these  many 
centuries.  Kneeling  face  to  face  upon  a 
lonesome  summit,  their  hands  clasped  before 
them,  their  backs  bent  as  with  the  burdens 
of  the  race,  two  women  prayed  the  old,  old, 
woman  prayer.  The  snow-white  ruins  of  a 
vast  cathedral  lay  along  the  water's  edge,  and 
all  about  it  was  a  hush  of  worship.  And 
near  it,  arose  the  pointed  pipes  of  a  colossal 
organ — with  the  summer  silence  for  music. 

With  a  lazy  sail  we  drifted  through  this 
place  of  awe;  and  for  once  I  had  no  regrets 
about  that  engine.  The  popping  of  the  ex- 
haust would  have  seemed  sacrilegious  in  this 
holy  quiet. 

Seldom  do  men  pass  that  way.  It  is  out 
of   the   path    of   the    tourist.     No    excursion 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      143 

steamers  ply  those  awesome  river  reaches. 
Across  the  sacred  whiteness  of  that  cathedral's 
imposing  mass,  no  sign  has  ever  been  painted 
telling  you  the  merits  of  the  best  five-cent 
cigar  in  the  world!  Few  beside  the  hawks 
and  the  crows  would  see  it,  if  it  were  there. 

And  yet,  for  all  the  quiet  in  this  land  of 
wonder,  somehow  you  cannot  feel  that  the 
place  is  unpeopled.  Surely,  you  think,  in- 
visible knights  clash  in  tourney  under  those 
frowning  towers.  Surely  a  lovelorn  maiden 
spins  at  that  castle  window,  weaving  her 
heartache  into  the  magic  figures  of  her  loom. 
Stately  dames  must  move  behind  the  shut 
doors  of  those  pillared  mansions;  devotees 
mutter  Oriental  prayers  beneath  those  sun- 
smitten  domes.  And  amid  the  awful  inner 
silence  of  that  cathedral,  white-robed  priests 
lift  wan  faces  to  their  God. 

Under  the  beat  of  the  high  sun  the  light 
stern  wind  fell.  The  slack  sail  drooped  like 
a  sick-hearted  thing.  Idly  drifting  on  the 
slow  glassy  flood,  we  seemed  only  an  inci- 
dental portion  of  this  dream  in  which  the 
deepest  passions  of  man  were  bodied  forth  in 


144  The  River  and  I 

eternal  fixity.  Towers  of  battle,  domes 
of  prayer,  fanes  of  worship,  and  then — the 
kneeling  women!  Somehow  one  could  n't 
whistle  there.  Bill  and  the  Kid,  little  given 
to  sentiment,  sat  quietly  and  stared. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  found  ourselves 
out  of  this  "Region  of  Weir."  Great  wall 
rocks  soared  above  us.  Consulting  our  map, 
we  found  that  we  were  nearing  Eagle  Rapids, 
the  first  of  a  turbulent  series.  I  had  fondly 
anticipated  shooting  them  all  under  power. 
So  once  more  I  decided  to  go  over  that  engine. 
We  landed  at  the-  wooded  mouth  of  a  little 
ravine,  having  made  a  trifle  over  twenty 
miles  that  day. 

With  those  tools  of  the  engine  doctor — 
an  air  of  mystery  and  a  monkey-wrench — I 
unscrewed  everything  that  appeared  to  have  a 
thread  on  it,  and  pulled  out  the  other  things. 
The  odds,  I  figured,  were  in  my  favor.  A 
sick  engine  is  useless,  and  I  felt  assured  of 
either  killing  or  curing.  I  did  something — 
I  don't  know  what;  but  having  achieved  the 
complete  screwing  up  and  driving  in  of  things 
— it  went ! 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      145 

So  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  we 
were  up  early,  eager  for  the  shooting  of  rapids. 
We  had  understood  from  the  conversation  of 
the  seemingly  wise,  that  Eagle  Rapids  was 
the  first  of  a  series  that  made  the  other  rapids 
we  had  passed  through  look  like  mere  ripples 
on  the  surface.  In  some  of  those  we  had  gone 
at  a  very  good  clip,  and  several  times  we  had 
lost  our  rudder. 

I  remembered  how  the  steamboats  used  to 
be  obliged  to  throw  out  cables  and  slowly 
wind  themselves  up  with  the  power  of  the 
''steam  nigger."  I  also  remembered  the 
words  of  Father  de  Smet:  "There  are  many 
rapids,  ten  of  which  are  very  difficult  to  ascend 
and  very  dangerous  to  go  down." 

We  had  intended  from  the  very  first  to  get 
wrecked  in  one  or  all  of  these  rapids.  For 
this  reason  we  had  distributed  forward,  aft, 
and  amidships,  eight  five-gallon  cans,  soldered 
air-tight.  The  frail  craft  would,  we  figured,  be 
punctured.  The  cans  would  displace  nearly 
three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  water,  and 
the  boat  and  engine,  submerged,  would  lose 
a  certain  weight.     I  had  made  the  gruesome 


146  The  River  and  I 

calculation  with  fond  attention  to  detail. 
I  decided  that  she  should  be  wrecked  quite 
arithmetically.  We  should  be  able,  the 
figures  said,  to  recover  the  engine  and  patch 
the  boat.  We  had  provided  three  life-pre- 
servers, but  one  had  been  stolen;  so  I  had 
fancied  what  a  bully  fight  one  might  have  if 
he  should  be  thrown  out  into  the  mad  waters 
without  a  life-preserver. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  explain  it  satis- 
factorily; it  is  one  of  the  paradoxes;  but 
human  nature  seems  to  take  a  weird  delight 
in  placing  in  jeopardy  that  which  is  dearest. 
Even  a  coward  with  his  fingers  clenched 
desperately  on  the  ragged  edge  of  hazard, 
feels  an  inexplicable  thrill  of  glory.  Having 
several  times  been  decently  scared,  I  know. 

One  likes  to  take  a  sly  peep  behind  the 
curtain  of  the  big  play,  hoping  perhaps  to  get 
a  slight  hint  as  to  what  machinery  hoists  the 
moon,  and  what  sort  of  contrivance  flings 
the  thunder  and  lightning,  and  many  other 
things  that  are  none  of  his  business.  Only, 
to  be  sure,  he  intends  to  get  away  safely  with 
his  information.     When   you   think   you   see 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      147 


your  finish  bowing  to  receive  you,  something 
happens  in  your  head.  It 's  like  a  sultry 
sheet  of  rapid  fire  lapping  up  for  a  moment 
the  thunder-shaken  night — and  discovering  a 
strange  land  to  you.  And  it  's  really  good 
for  you. 

Under  half  speed  we  cruised  through  the 
windless  golden  morning;  and  the  lonesome 
canyon  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  joyful 
chortle  of  the  resurrected  engine.  We  had 
covered  about  ten  miles,  when  a  strange 
sighing  sound  grew  up  about  us.  It  seemed 
to  emanate  from  the  soaring  walls  of  rock. 
It  seemed  faint,  yet  it  arose  above  the  din 
of  the  explosions,  drowned  out  the  droning 
of  the  screw. 

Steadily  the  sound  increased.  Like  the 
ghost  of  a  great  wind  it  moaned  and  sighed 
about  us.  Little  by  little  a  new  note  crept  in 
— a  sibilant,  metallic  note  as  of  a  tense  sheet 
of  silk  drawn  rapidly  over  a  thin  steel  edge. 

We  knew  it  to  be  the  mourning  voice  of  the 
Eagle  Rapids;  but  far  as  we  could  see,  the 
river  was  quiet  as  a  lake.  We  jogged  on  for 
a  mile,  with  the  invisible  moaning  presence 


148  The  River  and  I 

about  us.  It  was  somewhat  like  that  intangi- 
ble something  you  feel  about  a  powerful  but 
sinister  personality.  The  golden  morning  was 
saturated  with  it. 

Suddenly,  turning  a  sharp  bend  about  the 
wall  of  rock  that  flanked  the  channel,  a 
wind  of  noise  struck  us.  It  was  like  the  hiss- 
ing of  innumerable  snakes  against  a  tonal 
background  of  muffled  continuous  thunder. 
A  hundred  yards  before  us  was  Eagle  Rapids 
— a  forbidding  patch  of  writhing,  whitening 
water,  pricked  with  the  upward  thrust  of 
toothlike  rocks. 

The  first  sight  of  it  turned  the  inside  of 
me  mist-gray.  Temporarily,  wrecks  and  the 
arithmetic  of  them  had  little  charm  for  me. 
I  seized  the  spark-lever,  intending  to  shut 
down.  Instead,  I  threw  it  wide  open.  With 
the  resulting  leap  of  the  craft,  all  the  gray 
went  out  of  me. 

I  grasped  the  rudder  ropes  and  aimed  at 
a  point  where  the  sinuous  current  sucked 
through  a  passage  in  the  rocks  like  a  lean 
flame  through  a  windy  flue.  Did  you  ever 
hear  music  that  made  you  see  purple?     It 


TYPICAL    RAPIDS    ON    UPPER    MISSOURI 


149 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      151 

was  that  sort  of  purple  I  saw  (or  did  I  hear  it 
like  music?)  when  we  plunged  under  full  speed 
into  the  first  suck  of  the  rapids.  We  seemed 
a  conscious  arrow  hurled  through  a  gray, 
writhing  world,  the  light  of  which  was  noise. 
And  then,  suddenly,  the  quiet,  golden  morning 
flashed  back;  and  we  were  ripping  the  placid 
waters  of  a  lake. 

The  Kid  broke  out  into  boisterous  laughter 
that  irritated  me  strangely:  "Where  the  devil 
do  you  suppose  our  life-preservers  are?"  he 
bawled.  "They  're  clear  down  under  all  the 
cargo!" 

A  world  of  wonderful  beauty  was  forging 
past  us.  In  the  golden  calm,  the  scintillant 
sheet  of  water  seemed  to  be  rushing  back- 
ward, splitting  itself  over  the  prow,  like  a 
fabric  woven  of  gold  and  silver  drawn  rapidly 
against  a  keen  stationary  blade. 

The  sheer  cliffs  had  fallen  away  into  pine- 
clad  slopes,  and  vari-colored  rocks  flung  notes 
of  scarlet  and  gold  through  the  sombre 
green  of  the  pines — like  the  riotous  treble 
cries  of  an  organ  pricking  the  sullen  mur- 
mur of   the  bass.     So    still  were  the    clean 


152  The  River  and  I 

waters  that  we  seemed  midway  between  two 
skies. 

i  We  skirted  the  base  of  a  conical  rock  that 
towered  three  hundred  feet  above  us — a  Titan 
sentinel.  It  was  the  famous  Sentinel  Rock 
of  the  old  steamboat  days.  I  shut  the 
engine  down  to  quarter  speed,  for  somehow 
from  the  dizzy  summit  a  sad  dream  fell  upon 
me  and  bade  me  linger. 

I  stared  down  into  the  cold  crystal  waters 
at  the  base  of  the  rock.  Many-colored  mosses, 
sickly  green,  pale,  feverish  red,  yellow  like 
fear,  black  like  despair,  purple  like  the  lips  of  a 
strangled  man,  clung  there.  I  remembered 
an  old  spring  I  used  to  haunt  when  I  was 
just  old  enough  to  be  awed  by  the  fact  of  life 
and  frightened  at  the  possibility  of  death. 
Just  such  mosses  grew  in  the  depths  of  that 
spring.     I  used  to  stare  into  it  for  hours. 

It  fascinated  me  in  a  terrible  way.  I 
thought  Death  looked  like  that.  Even  now 
I  am  afraid  I  could  not  swim  long  in  clear 
waters  with  those  fearful  colors  under  me. 
I  am  sure  they  found  Ophelia  floating  like 
a  ghastly  lily  in  such  a  place. 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      153 

Filled  with  a  shadow  of  the  old  childish 
dread,  I  looked  up  to  the  austere  summit  of 
the  Sentinel.  Scarred  and  haggard  with  time 
it  caught  the  sun.  I  thought  of  how  long  it 
had  stood  there  just  so,  under  the  intermittent 
flashing  of  moon  and  sun  and  star,  since  first 
its  flinty  peak  had  pricked  through  the  hot 
spume  of  prehistoric  seas. 

Fantastic  reptiles,  winged  and  finned  and 
fanged,  had  basked  upon  it — grotesque,  ten- 
tative vehicles  of  the  Flame  of  Life!  And 
then  these  flashed  out,  and  the  wild  sea  fell, 
and  the  land  arose — hideous  and  naked,  a 
steaming  ooze  fetid  with  gasping  life.  And 
all  the  while  this  scarred  Sentinel  stared 
unmoved.  And  then  a  riot  of  giant  vegeta- 
tion all  about  it — divinely  extravagant,  many- 
colored  as  fire.  And  this  too  flashed  out — 
like  the  impossible  dream  of  a  god  too  young. 
And  the  Great  Change  came,  and  the  para- 
dox of  frost  was  in  the  world,  stripping  life 
down  to  the  lean  essentials  till  only  the  sane, 
capable  things  might  live.  And  still  the 
Titan  stared  as  in  the  beginning.  And  then, 
men  were  in  the  land — gaunt,  terrible,  wolf- 


154  The  River  and  I 

like  men,  loving  and  hating.  And  La 
Verendrye  forged  past  it;  and  Lewis  and 
Clark  toiled  under  it  through  these  waters 
of  awful  quiet.  And  then  the  bull  boats  and 
the  mackinaws  and  the  packets.  And  all 
these  flashed  out;  and  still  it  stood  unmoved. 
And  I  came — and  I  too  would  flash  out,  and 
all  men  after  me  and  all  life. 

I  viewed  the  colossal  watcher  with  some- 
thing like  terror — the  aspect  of  death  about 
its  base  and  that  cynical  glimmer  of  sunlight 
at  its  top.  I  flung  the  throttle  open,  and  we 
leaped  forward  through  the  river  hush.  I 
wanted  to  get  away  from  this  thing  that  had 
seen  so  much  of  life  and  cared  so  little.  It 
depressed  me  strangely;  it  thrust  a  bitter 
question  within  the  charmed  circle  of  my 
ego.  It  gave  me  an  almost  morbid  desire 
for  speed,  as  though  there  were  some  place 
I  should  reach  before  the  terrible  question 
should  be  answered  against  me. 

We  fled  down  five  or  six  miles  of  depres- 
singly  quiet  waters.  Once  again  the  wall 
rocks  closed  about  us.  We  seemed  to  be  going 
at  a  tediously  slow  pace,   yet  the  two  thin 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      i$7 

streams  of  water  rushed  hissing  from  prow 
to    stern.     A    strange    mood   was    upon   me. 
Once  when  I  was  a  boy  and  far  from  home,  I 
awoke  in  the  night  with  a  bed  of  railroad 
ties  under  me,  and   the    chill   black   blanket 
of  the  darkness  about  me.     I  wanted  to  get 
up   and   run   through   that   damned   night— 
anywhere,  just  so  I  went  fast  enough— stop- 
ping only  when  exhaustion  should  drag   me 
down.     And    yet    I    was    afraid    of    nothing 
tangible;  hunger  and  the  stranger  had  sharp- 
ened whatever  blue   steel  there  was  in    my 
nature.     I  was    afraid   of   being   still!    Were 
you  ever  a  homesick  boy,  too  proud  to  tell 
the  truth  about  it? 

I  felt  something  of  that  boy's  ache  as  we 
shot  in  among  the  wall  rocks  again.  It  was 
a  psychic  hunger  for  something  that  does 
not  exist.  Oh,  to  attain  the  terrible  speed  one 
experiences  in  a  fever-dream,  to  get  some- 
where before  it  is  too  late,  before  the  black 

curtain  drops! 

To  some  this  may  sound  merely  like  the 
grating  of  overwrought  nerves.  But  it  is  more 
than   that.     All   religions   grew   out   of   that 


158  The  River  and  I 

most  human  mood.  And  whenever  one  is 
deeply  moved,  he  feels  it.  For  even  the 
most  matter-of-fact  person  of  us  all  has  now 
and  then  a  suspicion  that  this  life  is  merely 
episodic — that  curtain  after  curtain  of  dark- 
ness is  to  be  pierced,  world  after  world  of 
consciousness  and  light  to  be  passed  through. 

Once  more  the  rocks  took  on  grotesque 
shapes — utterly  ultra-human  in  their  sug- 
gestiveness.  Those  who  have  marvelled  at 
the  Hudson's  beauty  should  drop  down  this 
lonesome  stretch. 

We  shot  through  the  Elbow  Rapids  at  the 
base  of  the  great  Hole-in-the-Wall  Rock.  It 
was  deep  and  safe — much  like  an  exaggerated 
mill-race.  It  ran  in  heavy  swells,  yet  the  day 
was  windless. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  shot  the  Dead 
Man's  Rapids,  a  very  turbulent  and  rocky 
stretch  of  water.  We  went  through  at  a 
freight -train  speed,  and  began  to  develop 
a  slight  contempt  for  fast  waters.  That 
night  we  camped  at  the  mouth  of  the  Judith 
River  on  the  site  of  the  now  forgotten  Fort 
Chardon.     We  had  made   only   ninety-eight 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      161 

miles  in  four  days.  It  began  to  appear  that 
we  might  be  obliged  to  finish  on  skates ! 

We  were  up  and  off  with  the  first  gray  of 
the  morning.  We  knew  Dauphin  Rapids  to 
be  about  seventeen  miles  below,  and  since 
this  particular  patch  of  water  had  by  far  the 
greatest  reputation  of  all  the  rapids,  we  were 
eager  to  make  its  acquaintance. 

The  engine  began  to  show  unmistakable 
signs  of  getting  tired  of  its  job.  Now  and 
then  it  barked  spitefully,  had  half  a  notion 
to  stop,  changed  its  mind,  ran  faster  than  it 
should,  wheezed  and  slowed  down — acting  in 
an  altogether  unreasonable  way.  But  it 
kept  the  screw  humming  nevertheless. 

Fortunately  it  was  going  at  a  mad  clip 
when  we  sighted  the  Dauphin.  There  was 
not  that  sibilance  and  thunder  that  had 
turned  me  a  bit  gray  inside  at  first  sight  of  the 
Eagle.  The  channel  was  narrow,  and  no  rocks 
appeared  above  the  surface.  But  speed  was 
there;  and  the  almost  noiseless  rolling  of  the 
swift  flood  ahead  had  a  more  formidable  ap- 
pearance than  that  of  the  Eagle.  Rocks  above 
the   surface  are  not  much  to  be  feared  when 


162  The  River  and  I 

you  have  power  and  a  good  rudder.  But 
we  drew  about  twenty-two  inches  of  water, 
and  I  thought  of  the  rocks  under  the  surface. 

I  had,  however,  only  a  moment  to  think, 
for  we  were  already  travelling  a  good  eighteen 
miles,  and  when  the  main  swirl  of  the  rapids 
seized  us,  we  no  doubt  reached  twenty-five. 
I  was  grasping  the  rudder  ropes  and  we  were 
all  grinning  a  sort  of  idiotic  satisfaction  at  the 
amazing  spurt  of  speed,  when 

Something  was  about  to  happen! 

The  Kid  and  I  were  sitting  behind  the  en- 
gine in  order  to  hold  her  screw  down  to  solid 
water.  Bill,  decorated  with  a  grin,  sat  amid- 
ships facing  us.  I  caught  a  pink  flash  in 
the  swirl  just  under  our  bow,  and  then  it 
happened  ! 

The  boat  reared  like  a  steeple-chaser 
taking  a  fence!  The  Kid  shot  forward  over 
the  engine  and  knocked  the  grin  off  Bill's 
face!  Clinging  desperately  to  the  rudder 
ropes,  I  saw,  for  a  brief  moment,  a  good 
three  fourths  of  the  frail  craft  thrust  skyward 
at  an  angle  of  about  forty-five  degrees.  Then 
she  stuck  her  nose  in  the  water  and  her  screw 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      163 

came  up,  howling  like  seven  devils  in  the  air 
behind  me !  Instinctively,  I  struck  the  spark- 
lever;  the  howling  stopped, — and  we  were 
floating  in  the  slow  waters  below  Dauphin 
Rapids. 

All  the  cargo  had  forged  forward,  and  the 
persons  of  Bill  and  the  Kid  were  considerably 
tangled.  We  laughed  loud  and  long.  Then 
we  gathered  ourselves  up  and  wondered  if 
she  might  be  taking  water  under  the  cargo. 
It  developed  that  she  was  n't.  But  one  of 
our  grub  boxes,  containing  all  the  bacon,  was 
missing.  So  were  the  short  oars  that  we 
used  for  paddles.  While  we  laughed,  these 
had  found  some  convenient  hiding-place. 

We  had  struck  a  smooth  boulder  and  leaped 
over  it.  A  boat  with  the  ordinary  launch 
construction  would  have  opened  at  every 
seam.  The  light  springy  tough  construction 
of  the  Atom  had  saved  her.  Whereat  I  thought 
of  the  Information  Bureau  and  was  well 
pleased. 

Altogether  we  looked  upon  the  incident  as 
a  purple  spot.  But  we  were  many  miles  from 
available    bacon,    and  when,  upon  trial,  the 


1 64  The  River  and  I 

engine  refused  to  make  a  revolution,  we  began 
to  get  exceedingly  hungry  for  meat. 

Having  a  dead  engine  and  no  paddles,  we 
drifted.  We  drifted  very  slowly.  The  Kid 
asked  if  he  might  not  go  ashore  and  drive  a 
stake  in  the  bank.  For  what  purpose?  Why,  to 
ascertain  whether  we  were  going  up  or  down 
stream!  While  we  drifted  in  the  now  blister- 
ing sun,  we  talked  about  meat.  With  a 
devilish  persistence  we  quite  exhausted  the 
subject.  We  discussed  the  best  methods 
for  making  a  beefsteak  delicious.  It  made  us 
very  hungry  for  meat.  The  Kid  announced 
that  he  could  feel  his  backbone  sawing  at  the 
front  of  his  shirt.  But  perhaps  that  was 
only  the  hyperbole  of  youth.  Bill  confessed 
that  he  had  once  grumbled  at  his  good  wife 
for  serving  the  steak  too  rare.  He  now  stated 
that  at  the  first  telegraph  station  he  would 
wire  for  forgiveness.  I  advised  him  to  wire 
for  money  instead'  and  buy  meat  with  it. 
Personally  I  felt  a  sort  of  wistful  tenderness 
for  packing-houses. 

That  day  passed  somehow,  and  the  next 
morning  we  were  still  hungry  for  meat.     We 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      165 

spent  most  of  the  morning  talking  about  it. 
In  the  blistering  windless  afternoon,  we 
drifted  lazily.  Now  and  then  we  took  turns 
cranking  the  engine. 

We  were  going  stern  foremost  and  I  was 
cranking.  We  rounded  a  bend  where  the 
wall  rocks  sloped  back,  leaving  a  narrow 
arid  sagebrush  strip  along  both  sides  of  the 
stream.  I  had  straightened  up  to  get  the 
kink  out  of  my  back  and  mop  the  sweat  out 
of  my  eyes,  when  I  saw  something  that  made 
my  stomach  turn  a  double  somersault. 

A  good  eight  hundred  yards  down  stream 
at  the  point  of  a  gravel-bar,  something  that 
looked  like  and  yet  unlike  a  small  cluster  of 
drifting,  leafless  brush  moved  slowly  into  the 
water.  Now  it  appeared  quite  distinct,  and 
now  it  seemed  that  a  film  of  oil  all  but  blotted 
it  out.  I  blinked  my  eyes  and  peered  hard 
through  the  baffling  yellow  glare.  Then  I 
reached  for  the  rifle  and  climbed  over  the 
gunwale.     I  smelled  raw  meat. 

Fortunately,  we  were  drifting  across  a  bar, 
and  the  slow  water  came  only  to  my  shoulders. 
The   thing    eight    hundred    yards    away   was 


1 66  The  River  and  I 

forging  across  stream  by  this  time — heading 
for  the  mouth  of  a  coulee.  I  saw  plainly 
now  that  the  brush  grew  out  of  a  head.  It 
was  a  buck  with  antlers. 

Just  below  the  coulee's  mouth,  the  wall 
rocks  began  again.  The  buck  would  be 
obliged  to  land  above  the  wall  rocks,  and  the 
drifting  boat  would  keep  him  going.  I 
reached  shore  and  headed  for  that  coulee. 
The  sagebrush  concealed  me.  At  the  critical 
moment,  I  intended  to  show  myself  and  start 
him  up  the  steep  slope.  Thus  he  would  be 
forced  to  approach  me  while  fleeing  me. 
When  I  felt  that  enough  time  had  passed,  I 
stood  up.  The  buck,  shaking  himself  like 
a  dog,  stood  against  the  yellow  sandstone 
at  the  mouth  of  the  gulch.  He  saw  me, 
looked  back  at  the  drifting  boat,  and  appeared 
to  be  undecided. 

I  wondered  what  the  range  might  be. 
Back  home  in  the  ploughed  field  where  I  fre- 
quently plug  tin  cans  at  various  long  ranges, 
I  would  have  called  it  six  hundred  yards — at 
first.  Then  suddenly  it  seemed  three  or 
four  hundred.     Like  a  thing  in  a  dream  the 


H  ir 


■F 


:\ 


MM  I 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      169 

buck  seemed  to  waver  back  and  forth  in  the 
oily  sunlight. 

"Call  it  four  hundred  and  fifty,"  I  said  to 
myself,  and  let  drive.  A  spurt  of  yellow 
stone-dust  leaped  from  the  cliff  a  foot  or  so 
above  the  deer's  back.  Only  four  hundred? 
But  the  deer  had  made  up  his  mind.  He 
had  urgent  business  on  the  other  side  of  that 
slope — he  appeared  to  be  overdue. 

I  pumped  up  another  shell  and  drew  fine  at 
four  hundred.  That  time  his  rump  quivered 
for  a  second  as  though  a  great  weight  had 
been  dropped  on  it.  But  he  went  on  with 
increased  speed.  Once  more  I  let  him  have 
it.  That  time  he  lost  an  antler.  He  had 
now  reached  the  summit,  two  hundred  feet 
up  at  the  least. 

I  He  hesitated — seemed  to  be  shivering.  I 
have  hunted  with  a  full  stomach  and  brought 
down  game.  But  there  's  a  difference  when 
you  are  empty.  In  that  moment  before  you 
kill,  you  became  the  sort  of  fellow  your 
mother  would  n't  like.  Perhaps  the  average 
man  would  feel  a  little  ashamed  to  tell  the 
truth    about    that    big    savage    moment.     I 


170  The  River  and  I 

got  down  on  my  knee  and  put  a  final  soft- 
nosed  ball  where  it  would  do  the  most  good. 
The  buck  reared,  stiffened,  and  came  down, 
tumbling  over  and  over. 

That  night  we  pitched  camp  under  a  lone 
scrubby  tree  at  the  mouth  of  an  arid  gulch 
that  led  back  into  the  utterly  God-forsaken 
Bad  Lands.  It  was  the  wilderness  indeed. 
Coyotes  howled  far  away  in  the  night,  and 
diving  beaver  boomed  out  in  the  black 
stream. 

We  built  half  a  dozen  fires  and  swung  above 
them  the  choice  portions  of  our  kill.  And 
how  we  ate — with  what    glorious    appetites! 

It  is  good  to  sit  with  a  glad-hearted  com- 
pany flinging  words  of  joyful  banter  across 
very  tall  steins.  It  is  good  to  draw  up  to  a 
country  table  at  Christmas  time  with  turkey 
and  pumpkin-pies  and  old-fashioned  puddings 
before  you,  and  the  ones  you  love  about  you. 
I  have  been  deeply  happy  with  apples  and 
cider  before  an  open  fireplace.  I  have  been 
present  when  the  brilliant  sword-play  of  wit 
flashed  across  a  banquet  table — and  it  thrilled 
me.     But 


Through  the  Region  of  Weir      171 

There  is  no  feast  like  the  feast  in  the  open — 
the  feast  in  the  flaring  light  of  a  night  fire — 
the  feast  of  your  own  kill,  with  the  tang  of  the 
wild  and  the  tang  of  the  smoke  in  it! 


CHAPTER  VI 

GETTING  DOWN  TO  BUSINESS 

TT  all  came  back  there  by  the  smouldering 
*■  fires — the  wonder  and  the  beauty  and  the 
awe  of  being  alive.  We  had  eaten  hugely 
— a  giant  feast.  There  had  been  no  formali- 
ties about  that  meal.  Lying  on  our  blankets 
under  the  smoke-drift,  we  had  cut  with  our 
jack-knives  the  tender  morsels  from  a  haunch 
as  it  roasted.  When  the  haunch  was  at  last 
cooked  to  the  bone,  only  the  bone  was  left. 

Heavy  with  the  feast,  I  lay  on  my  back 
watching  the  gray  smoke  brush  my  stars  that 
seemed  so  near.  My  stars  !  Soft  and  gentle 
and  mystical!  Like  a  dark-browed  Yotun 
woman  wooing  the  latent  giant  in  me,  the 
night  pressed  down.  I  closed  my  eyes,  and 
through  me  ran  the  sensuous  surface  fires 
of  her  dream-wrought  limbs.     Upon  my  face 

the  weird  magnetic  lure  of  ever-nearing,  never- 

172 


Getting  Down  to  Business        173 

kissing  lips  made  soundless  music.  Like  a 
sister,  like  a  mother  she  caressed  me,  lazy 
with  the  giant  feast;  and  yet,  a  drowsy, 
half -voluptuous  joy  shimmered  and  rippled 
in  my  veins. 

Drowsing  and  dreaming  under  the  drifting 
smoke- wrack,  I  felt  the  sense  of  time  and  self 
drop  away  from  me.  No  now,  no  to-mor- 
row, no  yesterday,  no  I!  Only  eternity,  one 
vast  whole — sun-shot,  star-sprent,  love-filled, 
changeless.  And  in  it  all,  one  spot  of  con- 
sciousness more  acute  than  other  spots;  and 
that  was  the  something  that  had  eaten  hugely, 
and  that  now  felt  the  inward-flung  glory  of  it 
all;  the  swooning,  half -voluptuous  sense  of 
awe  and  wonder,  the  rippling,  shimmering, 
universal  joy. 

And  then  suddenly  and  without  shock — like 
the  shifting  of  the  wood  smoke — the  mood 
veered,  and  there  was  nothing  but  I.  Space 
and  eternity  were  I — vast  projections  of 
myself,  tingling  with  my  consciousness  to 
the  remotest  fringe  of  the  outward  swing- 
ing atom-drift;  through  immeasurable  night, 
pierced  capriciously  with  shafts  of  paradoxic 


174  The  River  and  I 

day;  through  and  beyond  the  awful  circle 
of  yearless  duration,  my  ego  lived  and  knew 
itself  and  thrilled  with  the  glory  of  being. 
The  slowly  revolving  Milky  Way  was  only 
a  glory  within  me;  the  great  woman-star 
jewelling  the  summit  of  a  cliff,  was  only  an 
ecstasy  within  me;  the  murmuring  of  the 
river  out  in  the  dark  was  only  the  singing  of 
my  heart;  and  the  deep,  deep  blue  of  the 
heavens  was  only  the  splendid  color  of  my 
soul. 

Bill  snored.  Among  the  glowing  fires 
moved  the  black  bulk  of  the  Kid,  turning 
the  hunks  of  venison.  And  then  the  universe 
and  I,  curiously  mixed,  swooned  into  nothing 
at  all,  and  I  was  blinking  at  a  golden  glow, 
and  from  the  river  came  a  shouting. 

It  was  broad  day.  We  leaped  up,  and  rub- 
bing the  sleep  from  our  eyes,  saw  a  light  skiff 
drifting  toward  us.  It  contained  two  men — 
Frank  and  Charley.  We  had  met  them  at 
Benton,  and  during  an  acquaintance  of  three 
weeks  we  had  learned  of  their  remarkable 
ability  as  cooks.  Frank  was  a  little  Canadian 
Frenchman,  and  Charley  was  English.    Both, 


Getting:  Down  to  Business        175 


i& 


in  the  parlance  of  the  road,  were  "floaters"; 
that  is-  to  say,  no  locality  ever  knew  them 
long;  the  earth  was  their  floor,  the  sky  their 
ceiling — and  their  god  was  Whim.  Naturally 
our  trip  had  appealed  to  them,  and  one  month 
in  Benton  had  aggravated  that  hopelessly 
incurable  disease — Wanderlust. 

So  we  had  agreed  that  somewhere  down 
river  we  would  camp  for  a  week  and  wait  for 
them.  They  would  do  the  cooking,  and  we 
would  take  them  in  tow.  Two  days  after  we 
dropped  out  of  Benton,  they  had  abruptly 
"jumped"  an  unfinished  job  and  put  off  after 
us  in  a  skiff,  rowing  all  day  and  most  of  the 
night  in  order  to  overtake  us. 

Certainly  they  had  arrived  at  the  moment 
most  psychologically  favorable  for  the  begin- 
ning of  an  odd  sort  of  tyranny  that  followed. 
Cooking  is  a  weird  mystery  to  me.  As  for 
Bill  and  the  Kid,  courtesy  forbids  detailed 
comment.  The  Kid  had  been  uniformly  suc- 
cessful in  disguising  the  most  familiar  articles 
of  diet;  and  Bill  was  perhaps  least  unsuccess- 
ful in  the  making  of  flapjacks.  According  to 
his  naive  statement,  he  had  discovered  the 


176  The  River  and  I 

trick  of  mixing  the  batter  while  manufac- 
turing photographer's  mounting  paste.  His 
statement  was  never  questioned.  My  only- 
criticism  on  his  flapjacks  was  simply  that 
he  left  too  much  to  the  imagination.  For 
these  and  kindred  reasons,  we  gladly  hailed 
the  newcomers. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  skiff  touched  shore, 
the  camp  consisted  of  two  cooks  and  three 
scullions.  The  Kid  was  a  hewer  and  packer 
of  wood,  I  was  a  pealer  and  sheer  of  things, 
and  Bill,  sweetly  oblivious  of  his  bewhiskered 
dignity,  danced  about  in  the  humblest  of 
moods,  handing  this  and  that  to  the  grub- 
lords. 

"You  outfitted  like  greenhorns!"  announced 
the  usurpers.  "What  you  want  is  raw 
material.  Run  down  to  the  boat,  please,  and 
bring  me  this!  Oh,  yes,  and  bring  me  that! 
And  you  '11  find  the  other  in  the  bottom  of  the 
skiff's  forward  locker!  Put  a  little  more  wood 
on  the  fire,  Kid;  and  say,  Bill,  hand  me  that, 
won't  you?  Who  's  going  to  get  a  pail  of 
water?" 

All  three  of  us  were  going  to  get  a  pail  of 


Getting  Down  to  Business         179 

water,  of  course!  It  was  the  one  thing  in  the 
world  we  wanted  to  do  very  much — get  a  pail 
of  water ! 

But  the  raw  materials — how  they  played 
on  them!  I  regarded  their  performance  as  a 
species  of  duet ;  and  the  raw  materials,  ranged 
in  the  sand  about  the  fire,  were  the  keys. 
Frank  touched  this,  Charley  touched  that, 
and  over  the  fire  the  music  grew — perfectly 
stomach-ravishing ! 

We  had  bought  with  much  care  all,  or  nearly 
all  the  ordinary  cooking-utensils.  These  the 
usurpers  scorned.  Three  or  four  gasoline 
cans,  transformed  by  a  jack-knife  into  skillets, 
ovens,  platters,  etc.,  sufficed  for  these  masters 
of  their  craft.  The  downright  Greek  simpli- 
city of  their  methods  won  me  completely. 

"This  is  indeed  Art,"  thought  I;  "first, 
the  elimination  of  the  non-essential,  and  then 
the  virile,  unerring  directness,  the  seemingly 
easy  accomplishment  resulting  from  effort 
long  forgotten;  and,  above  all,  the  final,  con- 
vincing delivery  of  the  goods." 

Out  of  the  chaos  of  the  raw  material, 
beneath  the  touch  of  Charley's  wise  hands, 


180  The  River  and  I 

emerged  a  wondrous  cosmos  of  biscuits,  light 
as  the  heart  of  a  boy.  And  Frank,  singing 
a  French  ditty,  created  wheat  cakes.  His 
method  struck  me  as  poetic.  He  scorned  the 
ordinary  uninspired  cook's  manner  of  turning 
the  half-baked  cake.  One  side  being  done,  he 
waited  until  the  ditty  reached  a  certain  lilting 
upward  leap  in  the  refrain,  when,  with  a  dex- 
terous movement  of  the  frying-pan,  he  tossed 
the  cake  into  the  air,  making  it  execute  a  joy- 
ful somersault,  and  catching  it  with  a  sizzling 
splat  in  the  pan,  just  as  the  lilting  measure 
ceased  abruptly. 

Why,  I  could  taste  that  song  in  the  pan- 
cakes ! 

I  wonder  why  domestic  economy  has  so  per- 
sistently overlooked  the  value  of  song  as  an 
adjunct  to  cookery.  Gateaux  a  la  chanson- 
nette!     Who  would  n't  eat  them  for  breakfast? 

At  six  in  the  evening  we  put  off,  Charley, 
the  Kid,  and  I  manning  the  power  boat,  Bill 
and  Frank  the  skiff,  which  was  towed  by  a 
thirty-foot  line.  I  had,  during  the  day,  trans- 
formed my  unquestioned  slavery  into  a  dis- 
tinct advantage,   having  carefully  impressed 


Getting  Down  to  Business        181 

upon  the  Englishman  the  honor  I  would  do 
him  by  allowing  him  to  become  chief  engineer 
of  the  Atom.  I  carefully  avoided  the  subject 
of  cranking.  I  was  tired  cranking.  I  felt 
that  I  had  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  enjoy- 
ment in  that  particular  form  of  physical 
exercise.  It  had  developed  during  the  day 
that  Charley  had  once  run  a  gasoline  engine. 
I  was  careful  to  emphasize  my  ridiculous  lack 
of  mechanical  ability.  Charley  took  the 
bait  beautifully. 

But  just  now  the  engine  ran  merrily. 
Above  its  barking  I  sang  the  praises  of  the 
Englishman,  with  a  comfortable  feeling  that, 
at  least  in  this,  the  tail  would  wag  the 
dog. 

Through  the  clear  quiet  waters,  between 
soaring  canyon  walls,  we  raced  eastward  into 
the  creeping  twilight.  Here  and  there  the 
banks  widened  out  into  valleys  of  wondrous 
beauty,  flanked  by  jagged  miniature  moun- 
tains transfigured  in  the  slant  evening  light. 
It  seemed  the  "faerie  land  forlorn"  of  which 
Keats  dreamed,  where  year  after  year  come 
only  the  winds  and  the  rains  and  the  snow 


182  The  River  and  I 

and  the  sunlight  and  the  star-sheen  and  the 
moon-glow. 

In  the  deepening  evening  our  widening 
V-shaped  wake  glowed  with  opalescent  witch- 
fires.  Watching  the  oily  ripples,  I  steered 
wild  and  lost  the  channel.  We  all  got  out 
and,  wading  in  different  directions,  went 
hunting  for  the  Missouri  River.  It  had  flat- 
tened out  into  a  lake  three  or  four  hundred 
yards  wide  and  eight  inches  deep.  Slipping 
poles  under  the  power  boat,  we  carried  it 
several  hundred  yards  to  a  point  where  the 
stream  deepened.  It  was  now  quite  dark,  and 
the  engine  quit  work  for  the  day.  The  skiff 
towed  us  another  mile  or  so  to  a  camping 
place. 

Having  moored  the  boats,  we  lined  up  on 
the  shore  and  had  a  song.  It  was  a  quintet, 
consisting  of  a  Frenchman,  an  Englishman, 
an  Irishman,  a  Cornishman,  and  a  German. 
A  very  strong  quintet  it  was;  that  is  to  say, 
strong  on  volume.  As  to  quality — we  were  n't 
thrusting  ourselves  upon  an  audience.  The 
river  and  the  sky  did  n't  seem  to  mind,  and, 
the  cliffs  sang  after  us,  lagging  a  beat  or  two. 


Getting  Down  to  Business         185 

We  wished  to  sing  ever  so  beautifully;  and, 
after  all,  it  would  be  much  better  to  have 
the  whole  world  wishing  to  sing  melodiously, 
than  to  have  just  a  few  masters  here  and 
there  who  really  can!  Did  you  ever  hear  a 
barefooted,  freckle-faced  ploughboy  singing 
powerfully  and  quite  out  of  tune,  the  stubble 
fields  about  him  still  glistening  with  the 
morning  dew,  and  the  meadow  larks  joining 
in  from  the  fence-posts  ?  I  have :  and  soaring 
above  the  faulty  execution,  I  heard  the  lark- 
heart  of  the  never-aging  world  wooing  the 
far-off  eternal  dawn.  True  song  is  merely  a 
hopeful  condition  of  the  soul.  And  so  I  am 
sure  we  sang  very  wonderfully  that  night. 

And  how  the  flapjacks  disappeared  as  a 
result  of  that  singing!  We  ate  until  Charley 
refused  to  bake  any  more;  then  we  rolled  up 
in  our  blankets  by  the  fire  and  "swapped 
lies,"  dropping  off  one  at  a  time  into  sleep 
until  the  last  speaker  finished  his  story  with 
only  the  drowsy  stars  for  an  audience.  At 
least  I  suppose  it  was  so;  I  was  not  the  last 
speaker. 

Alas!  too  seldom  were  we  to  hail  the  even- 


1 86  The  River  and  I 

ing  star  with  song.  So  far  we  had  made  in  a 
week  little  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  hours  of 
head  winds,  that  week  had  been  a  week  of 
dream.  We  now  awoke  fully  to  the  fact  that 
in  low  water  season  the  Missouri  is  not  swift. 
In  our  early  plans  we  had  fallen  in  with  the 
popular  fallacy  that  one  need  only  cut  loose 
and  let  the  current  do  the  rest;  whereas,  in 
low  water,  one  would  probably  never  reach 
the  end  of  his  journey  by  that  method.  In 
addition  to  this,  our  gasoline  was  running  low. 
We  had  trusted  to  irrigation  plants  for 
replenishing  our  supply  from  time  to  time. 
But  the  great  flood  of  the  spring  had  swept 
the  valley  clean.  Where  the  year  before 
there  were  prosperous  ranch  establishments 
with  gasoline  pumping  plants,  there  was  only 
desolation  now.  It  was  as  though  we  trav- 
elled in  the  path  of  a  devastating  army. 
Perhaps  the  summer  of  1908  was  the  most 
unfavorable  season  for  such  a  trip  in  the  last 
fifty  years.  Steamboating  on  the  upper  river 
is  only  a  memory.  There  are  now  no  wood- 
yards  as  formerly.     We  found  ourselves  with 


Getting  Down  to  Business         187 

no  certainty  of  procuring  grub  and  oil;  our 
engine  became  more  and  more  untrust- 
worthy; our  paddles  had  been  lost.  What 
winds  we  had  generally  blew  against  us,  and 
the  character  of  the  banks  was  changing. 
The  cliffs  gave  way  to  broad  alluvial  valleys, 
over  which,  at  times,  the  gales  swept  with 
terrific  force. 

Our  map  told  us  of  a  number  of  river 
"towns."  We  had  already  been  partially 
disillusioned  as  to  the  character  of  those 
"towns."  They  were  pretty  much  in  a  class 
with  Goodale,  except  that  they  lacked  the 
switch  and  the  box-car  and  the  sign.  Just 
now  Rocky  Point  lay  ahead  of  us.  Rocky 
Point  meant  a  new  supply  of  food  and  oil. 
Stimulated  by  this  thought,  Charley  cranked 
heroically  under  the  blistering  sun  and  man- 
aged to  arouse  the  engine  now  and  then  into 
spasms  of  speed.  He  had  not  yet  begun  to 
swear.  Fearfully  I  awaited  the  first  evidence 
of  the  new  mood,  which  I  knew  must  come. 

At  least  once  a  day  we  put  the  machinery 
on  the  operating  table.  Each  time  we  suc- 
ceeded only  in  developing  new  symptoms. 


1 88  The  River  and  I 

At  a  point  about  fifty  miles  from  the 
"town"  so  deeply  longed  for,  a  lone  cow- 
punch  appeared  on  the  bank. 

"How  far  to  Rocky  Point?"  I  cried. 

"Oh,  something  less  than  two  hundred 
miles!"  drawled  the  horseman.  (How  care- 
lessly they  juggle  with  miles  in  that  big 
country!) 

"It  's  just  a  little  place,  isn't  it?"  I  con- 
tinued. 

"Little  place!"  answered  the  cow-punch; 
"hell,  no!" 

"What!"  I  cried  in  glee;  "Is  it  really  a 
town  of  importance?"  I  had  visions  of  a 
budding  metropolis,  full  of  gasoline  and  grub. 

"I  guess  it  ain't  a  little  place,"  explained 
the  rider;  "w'y,  they  've  got  nigh  onto  ten 
thousand  cattle  down  there!" 

Ten  minutes  after  that,  Charley,  after  a 
desperate  but  unsuccessful  fit  of  cranking, 
straightened  the  kink  out  of  his  back,  mopped 
the  perspiration  from  his  face — and  swore  ! 

Almost  immediately  I  felt,  or  at  least 
thought  I  felt,  a  distinct  change  in  the  temper 
of   the   crew — for   the  worse.     We   used   the 


k 


Getting  Down  to  Business         191 

better  part  of  two  days  covering  the  last  fifty- 
miles  into  Rocky  Point,  only  to  find  that  the 
place  consisted  of  a  log  ranch-house,  two 
women,  an  old  man,  and  "Texas."  The 
cattle  and  the  other  men  were  scattered  over 
a  hundred  miles  or  so  of  range.  The  women 
either  would  not  or  could  not  supply  us  with 
grub,  explaining  that  the  nearest  railroad 
town  was  ninety  miles  away.  Gasoline  was 
out  of  the  question.  We  might  be  able  to 
buy  some  at  the  mouth  of  Milk  River,  two 
hundred  miles  down  stream! 

"Texas,"  who  made  me  think  of  Gargan- 
tua,  and  who  had  a  chest  like  a  bison  bull's, 
and  a  drawling  fog-horn  voice,  ran  a  saloon 
in  an  odd  little  shanty  boat  brought  down 
by  the  flood.     He  solved  the  problem  for  us. 

"You  cain't  get  no  gasoline  short  o'  Milk 
River,"  he  bellowed  drawlingly;  "and  you 
sure  got  to  paddle,  so  you  better  buy 
whiskey!" 

While  we  were  deciding  to  accept  the 
offered  advice,  "Texas"  whittled  a  stick  and 
got  off  a  few  jokes  of  Rabelaisian  directness. 
We  laughed  heartily,  and  as  a  mark  of  his 


192  The  River  and  I 

appreciation,  he  gave  us  five  quarts  for  a  gal- 
lon. Which  proved,  in  spite  of  his  appear- 
ance, that  "Texas"  was  very  human. 

We  gave  the  engine  a  final  trial.  It  ran 
by  spasms — backwards.  Then,  finally,  it  re- 
fused to  run  at  all.  We  tried  to  make  our- 
selves believe  that  the  gasoline  was  too  low 
in  the  tank,  that  the  pressure  of  the  oil  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  At  first  we  really 
knew  better.  But  days  of  drudgery  at  the 
paddles  transformed  the  makeshift  hope  into 
something  almost  like  a  certainty. 

There  was  no  lumber  at  Rocky  Point.  We 
rummaged  through  a  pile  of  driftwood  and 
found  some  half-rotted  two-by-sixes.  These 
we  hacked  into  paddles.  They  weighed, 
when  thoroughly  soaked,  at  least  fifteen 
pounds  apiece. 

Sending  Bill  and  Frank  on  ahead  with  the 
skiff  and  the  small  store  of  provisions,  Charley 
and  I,  the  Kid  at  the  steering  rope,  set  out 
pushing  the  power  canoe  with  the  paddles. 
The  skiff  was  very  soon  out  of  sight. 

The  Atom,  very  fast  under  power,  was, 
with   paddles,    the   slowest   boat   imaginable. 


Getting  Down  to  Business         193 

There  was  no  lift  to  her  prow,  no  exhilarating 
leap  as  with  the  typical  light  canoe  driven  by 
regulation  paddles.  And  she  was  as  unwiedly 
as  a  log.  A  light  wind  blew  up-stream,  and 
the  current  was  very  slow.  After  dark  we 
caught  up  with  Bill  and  Frank,  who  had  sup- 
per waiting.  I  had  been  tasting  venison  all 
day;  but  there  was  none  for  supper.  In 
spite  of  a  night's  smoking,  all  of  it  had  spoiled. 
This  left  us  without  meat.  Our  provisions 
now  consisted  mostly  of  flour.  We  had  a  few 
potatoes  and  some  toasted  wind  called  "break- 
fast food."  During  six  or  seven  hours  of 
hard  work  at  the  paddles,  we  had  covered  no 
more  than  fifteen  miles.  These  facts  put 
together  gave  no  promising  result.  In  addi- 
tion to  this,  it  was  impossible  to  stir  up  a  song. 
Even  the  liquor  would  n't  bring  it  out.  And 
the  flapjacks  were  not  served  a  la  chanson- 
nette  that  night.  I  tried  to  explain  why  the 
trip  was  only  beginning  to  get  interesting; 
but  my  words  fell  flat.  And  when  the  irre- 
pressible Kid  essayed  a  joke,  I  alone  laughed 
at  it,  though  rather  out  of  gratitude  than 
mirth. 


194  The  River  and  I 

There  are  many  men  who  live  and  die  with 
the  undisputed  reputation  of  being  good  fel- 
lows— your  friends  and  mine — who,  if  put 
to  the  test,  would  fail  miserably.  Fortunate 
is  that  man  to  whom  it  is  not  given  to  test  all 
of  his  friends.  This  is  not  cynicism;  it  is 
only  human  nature;  and  I  love  human  nature, 
being  myself  possessed  of  so  much  of  it.  I 
admire  it  when  it  stands  firmly  upon  its  legs, 
and  I  love  it  when  it  wobbles.  But  when  it 
gains  power  with  increasing  odds,  grows  big 
with  obstacles,  I  worship  it. 

"  To  thrill  with  the  joy  of  girded  men, 
To  go  on  forever  and  fail,  and  go  on  again — 
With  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow  at  night — ' ' 

Thus  it  should  have  been.  But  that  night, 
staring  into  the  faces  of  three  of  the  four,  I 
saw  the  yellow  streak.  The  Kid  was  not  one 
of  the  three.  The  first  railroad  station  would 
hold  out  no  temptation  to  him.  He  was  a 
kid,  but  manhood  has  little  to  do  with  age. 
It  must  exist  from  the  first  like  a  tang  of  iron 
in  the  blood.  Age  does  not  really  create 
anything — it  only  develops.     Your  wonderful 


Getting  Down  to  Business         197 

and  beautiful  things  often  come  as  para- 
doxes. I  looked  for  a  man  and  found  him  in 
a  boy. 

Bil".  talked  about  home  and  stared  into  the 
twilight.  The  "floaters"  were  irritable,  quar- 
relling with  the  fire,  the  grub,  the  cooking- 
utensils,  and  verbally  sending  the  engine  to 
the  devil. 

Seeing  about  eighteen  hundred  miles  of 
paddle  work  ahead,  knowing  that  at  that 
season  of  the  year  the  prevailing  winds  would 
be  head  winds,  and  having  very  little  faith  in 
the  engine  under  any  conditions,  I  decided 
to  travel  day  and  night,  for  the  water  was 
falling  steadily  and  already  the  channels  were 
at  times  hard  to  find.  Charley  and  Frank 
grumbled.  I  told  them  we  would  split  the 
grub  fairly,  a  fifth  to  a  man,  and  that  they 
might  travel  as  slowly  as  they  liked,  the  skiff 
being  their  property.     They  stayed  with  us. 

We  lashed  the  boats  together  and  put  off 
into  the  slow  current.  A  haggard,  eerie 
fragment  of  moon  slinked  westward.  Stars 
glinted  in  the  flawless  chilly  blue.  The  sur- 
face of  the  river  was  like  polished  ebony — a 


198  The  River  and  I 

dream-path  wrought  of  gloom  and  gleam. 
The  banks  were  lines  of  dusk,  except  where 
some  lone  cottonwood  loomed  skyward  like  a 
giant  ghost  clothed  with  a  mantle  that  glist- 
ered and  darkled  in  the  chill  star-sheen. 

There  was  the  feel  of  moving  in  eternity 
about  it  all.  The  very  limitation  of  the  dusk 
gave  the  feeling  of  immensity.  There  was  no 
sense  of  motion,  yet  we  moved.  The  sky 
seemed  as  much  below  as  above.  We  seemed 
suspended  in  a  hollow  globe.  Now  and  then 
the  boom  of  a  diving  beaver's  tail  accented 
the  clinging  quiet;  and  by  fits  the  drowsy 
muttering  of  waterfowl  awoke  in  the  adjacent 
swamps,  and  droned  back  into  the  universal 
hush. 

Frank  and  I  stood  watch,  the  three  others 
rolling  up  in  their  blankets  among  the  lug- 
gage. It  occurred  to  me  for  the  first  time 
that  we  had  a  phonograph  under  the  cargo. 
I  went  down  after  it.  At  random  I  chose  a 
record  and  set  the  machine  going.  It  was  a 
Chopin  Nocturne  played  on  a  'cello — a  vocal 
yearning,  a  wailing  of  frustrate  aspirations, 
a  brushing  of  sick  wings  across  the  gates  of 


Getting  Down  to  Business         199 

heavens  never  to  be  entered;  and  then  the 
finale — an  insistent,  feverish  repetition  of  the 
human  ache,  ceasing  as  with  utter  exhaustion. 

I  looked  about  me  drinking  in  the  night. 
How  little  this  music  really  expressed  it!  It 
seemed  too  humanly  near-sighted,  too  egotis- 
tic, too  petty  to  sound  out  under  those  far- 
seeing  stars,  in  that  divine  quiet. 

I  slipped  on  another  record.  This  time  it 
was  a  beautiful  little  song,  full  of  the  sweet 
melancholy  of  love.  I  shut  it  down.  The 
thing  would  n't  do.  In  the  evening — yes. 
But  now!  Truly  there  is  something  womanly 
about  Night,  something  loverlike  in  a  vast 
impersonal  way;  but  too  big — she  is  too  ter- 
ribly big  to  woo  with  human  sentiment. 
Only  a  windlike  chant  would  do — something 
with  an  undertone  of  human  despair,  out- 
soared  by  brave,  savage  flights  of  invincible 
soul-hope — great  virile  singing  man-cries, 
winged  as  the  starlight,  weird  as  space — 
Whitman  sublimated,  David's  soul  poured  out 
in  symphony. 

I  started  another  going.  This  time  I  did 
not    stop    it,    for    the    Night  was  singing — 


200  The  River  and  I 

— through  its  nose  perhaps,  but  still  it  was 
singing — -out  of  that  machine.  It  was  Wag- 
ner's Evening  Star  played  by  an  orchestra. 
It  filled  the  night,  swept  the  glittering 
reaches,  groped  about  in  the  glooms;  and 
then,  leaving  the  human  theme  behind,  soul- 
like the  upward  yearning  violins  took  flight, 
dissolving  at  last  into  starlight  and  immensity. 
Ages  swept  by  me  like  a  dream-wind.  When 
I  got  back,  the  machine,  all  but  run  down, 
was  scratching  hideously. 

Slowly  we  swung  about  in  the  scarcely  percep- 
tible current.  Down  among  the  luggage  the 
three  snored  discordantly.  Frank's  cigarette 
glowed  intermittently  against  the  dim  horizon, 
like  a  bonfire  far  off.  Somewhere  out  in  the 
gloom  coyotes  chattered  and  yelped,  and 
from  far  across  the  dusky  valley  others  an- 
swered— a  doleful  tenson. 

I  dozed.  Frank  awoke  us  all  with  a  shout. 
We  leaped  up  and  stared  blinkingly  into  the 
north.  That  whole  region  of  the  sky  was 
aflame  from  zenith  to  horizon  with  spectral 
fires.  It  was  the  aurora.  Not  the  pale, 
ragged  glow,   sputtering  like  the  ghost  of  a 


Getting  Down  to  Business        201 

huge  lamp-flame,  which  is  familiar  to  every 
one,  but  a  billowing  of  color,  rainbows  gone 
mad!  In  the  northeast  the  long  rolling  col- 
umns formed — many-colored  clouds  of  spec- 
tral light  whipped  up  as  by  a  whirlwind — flung 
from  eastward  to  westward,  devouring  Polaris 
and  the  Wain — rapid  sequent  towers  of 
smokeless  fire ! 

It  dazzled  and  whirled  and  mounted  and 
fell  like  the  illumined  filmy  skirts  of  some 
invisible  Titanic  serpentine  dancer,  madly 
pirouetting  across  a  carpet  of  stars.  Then 
suddenly  it  all  fell  into  a  dull  ember-glow  and 
flashed  out.  The  ragged  moon  dropped  out 
of  the  southwestern  sky.  In  the  chill  of  the 
night,  gray,  dense  fog  wraiths  crawled  upon 
the  hidden  face  of  the  waters. 

Again  I  dozed  and  awakened  with  the  sense 
of  having  stopped  suddenly.  A  light  wind 
had  arisen  and  we  were  fast  on  a  bar.  Frank 
and  I  took  our  blankets  out  on  the  sand, 
rolled  up  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  red  of  dawn  awoke  us  as  though  some 
one  had  shouted.  Frank  and  I  sat  up  and 
stared  about.     A  white- tail  deer  was  drinking 


202  The  River  and  I 

at  the  river's  edge  three  hundred  yards  away. 
So  far  as  we  were  concerned,  it  was  a  dream- 
deer.  We  blinked  complacently  at  it  until 
it  disappeared  in  the  brush.  Then  we  thought 
of  the  rifle. 

We  were  all  stiff  and  chilled.  The  boats 
were  motionless  in  shallow  water.  We  all 
got  out  in  the  stream  that  felt  icy  to  us, 
and  waded  the  crafts  into  the  channel. 
Incidentally  we  remembered  Texas  and  his 
wisdom. 

The  time  was  early  August;  but  nev- 
ertheless there  was  a  tang  of  frost  in  the 
air  and  the  river  seemed  to  flow  not  water 
but  a  thick  frore  fog.  I  smelled  persimmons 
distinctly — it  was  that  cold;  brown  spicy 
persimmons  smashed  on  crisp  autumn  leaves 
down  in  old  Missouri!  The  smell  haunted 
me  all  morning  like  a  bitter-sweet  regret. 

We  breakfasted  on  flapjacks  and,  separat- 
ing the  boats,  put  off.  The  skiff  left  us 
easily  and  disappeared.  A  head  wind  arose 
with  the  sun  and  increased  steadily.  By 
eleven  o'clock  it  blew  so  strongly  that  we 
could  make  no  headway  with  the  rude  pad- 


Getting  Down  to  Business        203 

dies,  and  the  waves,  rolling  at  least  four  feet 
from  trough  to  crest,  made  it  impossible  to 
hold  the  boat  in  course.  We  quit  paddling, 
and  got  out  in  the  water  with  the  line.  Two 
pulled  and  one  pushed.  All  day  we  waded, 
sometimes  up  to  our  necks;  sometimes  we 
swam  a  bit,  and  sometimes  we  clung  to  the 
boat  and  kicked  it  on  to  the  next  shallows. 
Our  progress  was  ridiculously  slow,  but  we 
kept  moving.  When  we  stopped  for  a  few 
minutes  to  smoke  under  the  lee  of  a  bank,  our 
legs  cramped. 

To  lay  up  one  day  would  be  only  to  estab- 
lish a  precedent  for  day  after  day  of  inactiv- 
ity. The  prevailing  winds  would  be  head 
winds.  We  clung  to  the  shoddy  hope  held 
out  by  that  magic  name — Milk  River.  We 
knew  too  well  that  Milk  River  was  only  a 
snare  and  a  delusion;  but  one  must  fight 
toward  something — it  makes  little  difference 
what  you  call  that  something.  A  goal,  in 
itself,  is  an  empty  thing;  all  the  virtue  lies 
in  the  moving  toward  the  goal. 

Often  we  sank  deep  in  the  mud;  often  at 
the  bends  we  could  scarcely  forge  against  the 


204  The  River  and  I 

blast  that  held  us  leaning  to  the  pull.  Noon 
came  and  still  we  had  not  overtaken  the  skiff. 
Dark  came,  and  we  had  not  yet  sighted  it. 
But  with  the  sun,  the  wind  fell,  and  we 
paddled  on,  lank  and  chilled.  About  ten 
o'clock  we  sighted  the  campfire. 

We  ate  flapjacks  once  more — delicious, 
butterless  flapjacks! — and  then  once  more 
we  put  off  into  the  chill  night.  We  made 
twelve  miles  that  day,  and  every  foot  had 
been  a  fight.  I  wanted  to  raise  it  to  twenty- 
five  before  sunrise.  No  one  grumbled  this 
time;  but  in  the  light  of  the  campfire  the 
faces  looked  cheerless — except  the  Kid's  face. 

We  huddled  up  in  our  blankets  and, 
naturally,  all  of  us  went  to  sleep.  A  great 
shock  brought  us  to  our  feet.  The  moon 
had  set  and  the  sky  was  overcast.  Thick 
night  clung  around  us.  We  saw  nothing,  but 
by  the  rocking  of  the  boats  and  the  roaring 
of  the  river,  we  knew  we  were  shooting 
rapids. 

Still  dazed  with  sleep,  I  had  a  curious  sense 
of  being  whirled  at  a  terrific  speed  into  some 
subterranean    suck    of    waters.  .    There    was 


Getting  Down  to  Business        205 


i& 


nothing  to  do  but  wait.  We  struck  rocks  and 
went  rolling,  shipping  buckets  of  water  at 
every  dip.  Then  there  was  a  long  sickening 
swoop  through  utter  blackness.  It  ended 
abruptly  with  a  thud  that  knocked  us 
down. 

We  found  that  we  were  no  longer  moving. 
We  got  out,  hanging  to  the  gunwales.  The 
boats  were  lodged  on  a  reef  of  rock,  and  we 
were  obliged  to  "walk"  them  for  some  dis- 
tance, when  suddenly  the  water  deepened, 
and  we  all  went  up  to  our  necks.  And  the 
night  seemed  bitterly  cold.  I  never  shivered 
more  in  January. 

It  was  yet  too  dark  to  find  a  camping  place ; 
so  we  drifted  on  until  the  east  paled.  Then 
we  built  a  great  log  fire  and  baked  ourselves 
until  sunrise. 

Day  after  day  my  log-book  begins  with  the 
words,  "Heavy  head  winds,"  and  ends  with 
"Drifted  most  of  the  night."  We  covered 
about  twenty-five  miles  every  twenty-four 
hours.  Every  day  the  cooks  grumbled 
more;  and  Bill  had  a  way  of  staring  wistfully 
into   the  distance   and   talking  about  home, 


206  The  River  and  I 

that  produced  in  me  an  odd  mixture  of  anger 
and  pity. 

We  had  lost  our  map :  we  had  no  calendar. 
Time  and  distance,  curiously  confused,  were 
merely  a  weariness  in  the  shoulders. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON  TO  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

A  T  last  one  evening  (shall  I  confess  it?) 
we  had  blue-crane  soup  for  supper! 
Now  a  flight  of  gray-blue  cranes  across  a 
pearl-gray  sky,  shot  with  threads  of  evening 
scarlet,  makes  a  masterly  picture:  indeed, 
an  effect  worthy  of  reproduction  in  Art.  You 
see  a  Japanese  screen  done  in  heroic  size ;  and 
it  is  a  sight  to  make  you  long  exquisitely  for 

things  that  are  not — like  a  poet.     But 

Let  us  have  no  illusions  about  this  matter! 
Crane  soup  is  not  satisfactory.  It  looks  gray- 
blue  and  tastes  gray-blue,  and  gives  to  your 
psychic  inwardness  a  dull,  gray-blue,  mel- 
ancholy tone.  And  when  you  nibble  at  the 
boiled  gray-blue  meat  of  an  adult  crane,  you 
catch  yourself  wondering  just  what  sort  of 

ragout  could  be  made  out  of  boots;  you  have 

207 


208  The  River  and  I 

a  morbid  longing  to  know  just  how  bad  such 
a  ragout  would  really  be! 

Hereafter  on  whatever  trails  I  may  follow, 
blue  cranes  shall  be  used  chiefly  for  Japanese 
screen  effects.  Little  by  little  (the  latent  phi- 
losopher in  me  emerges  to  remark)  by  exper- 
ience we  place  not  only  ourselves  but  all  things 
in  their  proper  places  in  the  universe.  This 
process  of  fitting  things  properly  in  one's 
cosmos  seems  to  be  one  of  the  chief  aims  of 
conscious  life.  Therefore  I  score  one  for  my- 
self— having  placed  blue  cranes  permanently 
in  that  cosmic  nook  given  over  to  Japanese 
screen  effects ! 

Next  morning  we  pushed  on.  The  taste 
of  that  crane  soup  clung  to  me  all  day  like 
the  memory  of  an  old  sorrow  dulled  by  time. 

Deer  tracks  were  plentiful,  but  it  has  long 
been  conceded  that  the  tracks  are  by  far  the 
least  edible  things  pertaining  to  an  animal. 
Cranes  seemed  to  have  multiplied  rapidly. 
Impudently  tame,  they  lined  the  gravel-bars, 
and  regarded  us  curiously  as  we  fought  our 
way  past  them.  Now  and  then  a  flock  of 
wild   ducks   alighted   several   hundred   yards 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  209 

from  us.  We  had  only  a  rifle.  To  shoot  a 
moving  duck  out  of  a  moving  boat  with  a 
rifle  is  a  feat  attended  with  some  difficulties. 
Once  we  wounded  a  wild  goose,  but  it  got 
away;  which  offended  our  sense  of  poetic 
justice.  After  crane  soup  one  would  seem 
to  deserve  roast  goose. 

I  scanned  the  dreary  monotonous  valleys 
stretching  away  from  the  river.  We  had  for 
several  days  been  living  on  scenery,  tobacco, 
and  flapjacks.  The  scenery  had  flattened  out, 
tobacco  was  running  low;  but  the  flapjacks 
bid  fair  to  go  on  forever.  I  sought  in  my  head 
for  the  exact  adjective,  the  particular  epithet 
with  the  inevitable  feel  about  it,  with  which 
to  describe  that  monotonous  melancholy 
stretch.  Every  time  I  tried,  I  came  back  to 
the  word  libaconless"  The  word  took  on 
exquisite  overtones  of  gray  meaning,  and  I 
worked  up  those  overtones  until  I  had  a 
perfectly  wrought  melancholy  poem  of  one 
word — "  Baconless."  For,  after  all,  a  poem 
never  existed  upon  paper,  but  lives  subtly 
in  the  consciousness  of  the  poet,  and  in  the 
minds   of   those    who    understand    the    poet 


210  The  River  and  I 

through  the  suggestiveness  of  his  written 
symbols,  and  their  own  remembered  exper- 
iences. 

But  during  the  next  morning,  poetic  justice 
worked.  A  rider  mounted  on  a  piebald 
pony  appeared  on  the  bank  and  shouted  for 
us  to  pull  in. 

I  suddenly  realized  why  a  dog  wags  his  tail 
at  a  stranger.  But  the  feeling  I  had  was  big- 
ger than  that.  This  mounted  man  became  at 
once  for  me  the  incarnation  of  the  meaning  of 
bacon ! 

When  two  parties  meet  and  each  wants 
what  the  other  can  give,  it  does  n't  take  long 
to  get  acquainted.  The  rider  was  a  youth  of 
about  seventeen.  One  glance  at  his  face 
told  you  the  story  of  his  rearing.  He  was 
unmistakably  city-bred,  and  his  hands  showed 
that  his  life  had  begun  too  easy  for  his  own 
good. 

"From  the  East?"  he  questioned  joyously. 
"Say,  you  know  little  old  New  York,  don't 
you?     When  were  you  there  last?" 

The  lad  was  hungry,  but  not  for  bacon. 
Alas!     Our   hunger   was    the    healthier    one! 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  211 

We  talked  of  New  York.  "Mother's  in 
Paris,"  he  volunteered,  "and  Dad  's  in  New 
York  meeting  her  bills.  But  the  Old  Man  's 
got  a  grouch  at  me,  and  so  he  sent  me  'way 
out  here  in  this  God-forsaken  country!  Say, 
what  did  they  make  this  country  for?  Got 
any  tailor-made  cigarettes  about  you?  How 
did  Broadway  look  when  you  were  there  last? 
Lights  all  there  yet  at  night?  I  've  been  here 
two  years — it  seems  like  two  hundred!  Talk 
about  Robinson  Crusoe!  Say,  I  've  got  him 
distanced!" 

I  helped  him  build  up  a  momentary  Broad- 
way there  in  the  wilderness — the  lights,  the 
din,  the  hurrying,  jostling  theatre  crowds,  the 
cafes,  faces,  faces — anguished  faces,  eager 
faces,  weary  faces,  painted  faces,  squalor, 
brilliance.  For  me  the  memory  of  it  only 
made  me  feel  the  pity  of  it  all.  But  the  lad's 
eyes  beamed.  He  was  homesick  for  Broad- 
way. 

I  changed  the  subject  from  prose  to  poetry; 
that  is,  from  Broadway  to  bacon. 

"Wait  here  till  I  come  back,"  said  the  lad, 
mounting.     He  spurred  up  a  gulch  and  dis- 


212  The  River  and  I 

appeared.  In  an  hour  he  reappeared  with  a 
half  strip  of  the  precious  stuff.  "Take  money 
for  it?  Not  on  your  life!"  he  insisted. 
"You  've  been  down  there,  and  that  goes  for 
a  meal  ticket  with  me!" 

Fried  bacon!  And  flapjacks  sopped  in  the 
grease  of  it !  After  all,  a  banquet  is  very  much 
a  state  of  mind. 

When  we  pulled  away,  the  ostracized  New 
Yorker  bade  us  farewell  with  a  snatch  of  a 
song  once  more  or  less  popular:  "Give  my 
regards  to  Broadway!" 

We  pushed  on  vigorously  now.  The  head 
wind  came  up.  The  head  wind!  It  seemed 
one  of  the  eternal  things.  We  paddled  and 
cordelled  valiantly,  discussing  Milk  River 
the  while.  We  had  grown  very  credulous  on 
that  subject.  Somehow  or  other  an  unlimited 
supply  of  gasoline  was  all  the  engine  needed 
for  the  complete  restoration  of  its  health; 
and  Milk  River  stood  for  gasoline  in  liberal 
quantities.  Hope  is  generally  represented  by 
the  poets  as  a  thing  winged  and  ethereal; 
nevertheless  it  can  be  fed  on  bacon. 

The  next  morning  we  arrived  at  the  mouth 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  215 

of  what  we  took  to  be  Hell  Creek,  which 
flows  (when  it  has  any  water  in  it!)  out  of  the 
Bad  Lands.  It  did  n't  take  much  imagina- 
tion to  name  that  creek.  The  whole  country 
from  which  it  debouches  looks  like  Hell — 
"with  the  lights  out,"  as  General  Sully  once 
remarked.  A  country  of  lifeless  hills  that  had 
the  appearance  of  an  endless  succession  of 
huge  black  cinder  heaps  from  prehistoric  fires. 

The  wind  had  increased  steadily  all  day, 
and  now  we  saw  ahead  of  us  a  long  rolling 
stretch  of  wind-lashed  river  that  discouraged 
us  somewhat.  A  gray  mist  rolled  with  the 
wind,  and  dull  clouds  scudded  over.  We 
pitched  camp  in  a  clump  of  cottonwoods  and 
made  flapjacks;  after  which  the  Kid  and  I, 
taking  our  blankets  and  the  rifle,  set  out  to 
explore  Hell  Creek. 

The  windings  of  the  ravine  soon  hid  us 
from  the  river,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
melancholy  world,  without  life  and  without 
any  human  significance.  It  was  very  easy 
to  imagine  one's  self  lost  amid  the  drear 
ashen  craters  of  the  moon.  We  pushed  on 
up  the  creek,  kicking  up  clouds  of  alkali  dust 


216  The  River  and  I 

as  we  went.  A  creek  of  a  burnt-out  hell  it  was, 
to  be  sure.  It  seemed  almost  blasphemous 
to  call  this  arid  gully  a  creek.  Boys  swim  in 
creeks,  and  fishes  twinkle  over  the  shallows 
where  the  sweet  eager  waters  make  a  merry 
sound.  Creek,  indeed!  Did  a  cynic  name 
this  dry  ragged  gash  in  the  midst  of  a  bleak 
black  world  where  nothing  lived,  where  never 
laughter  sounded? 

A  seething,  fiery  ooze  might  have  flowed 
there  once,  but  surely  never  did  water  make 
music  there. 

We  pushed  on  five  or  six  miles,  and  the 
evening  shade  began  to  press  in  about  us.  At 
last  we  issued  forth  into  a  flat  basin,  sur- 
rounded by  the  weird  hills — a  grotesque, 
wind-carved  amphitheatre,  admirably  suited 
for  a  witches'  orgy.  Some  bleached  bison 
heads  with  horns  lay  scattered  about  the 
place,  and  a  cluster  of  soap  weeds  grew  there — 
God  knows  how!  They  thrust  their  sere 
yellow  sword-blades  skyward  with  the  pitiful 
defiance  of  desperate  things.  It  seemed  nat- 
ural enough  that  something  should  be  dead 
in    this    sepulchre;    but    the    living    weeds, 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  219 

fighting  bitterly  for  life,  seemed  out  of 
place. 

I  looked  about  and  thought  of  Poe.  Surely 
just  beyond  those  summits  where  the  mel- 
ancholy sky  touched  the  melancholy  hills, 
one  would  come  upon  the  "dank  tarn  of 
Auber"  and  the  "ghoul-haunted  woodland  of 
Weir." 

We  gathered  a  quantity  of  the  dry  sword- 
bladed  soapweeds,  and  with  one  of  the 
blankets  made  a  lean-to  shelter  against  the 
steep  hillside.  The  place  was  becoming  eerie 
in  the  gray  evening  that  spread  slowly  over 
the  dead  land.  The  mist  driven  by  the 
moaning  wind  became  a  melancholy  drizzle. 
We  dragged  the  soapweeds  under  cover  and 
lit  a  fire  with  difficulty.  It  was  a  half-hearted, 
smudgy,  cheerless  fire. 

And  then  the  night  fell — tremendous,  over- 
powering night!  The  Kid  and  I,  huddled 
close  in  one  blanket,  thrust  our  heads  out 
from  under  the  shelter  and  watched  the 
ghastly  world  leap  by  fits  out  of  the  dark, 
when  the  sheet  lightning  flared  through  the 
drizzle.     It  gave  one  an  odd  shivery  feeling. 


220  The  River  and  I 

It  was  as  though  one  groped  about  a  strange 
dark  room  and  saw,  for  a  brief  moment  in  the 
spurting  glow  of  a  wind-blown  sulphur  match, 
the  staring  face  of  a  dead  man.  Over  us  the 
great  wind  groaned.  Water  dripped  through 
the  blanket — like  tears.  We  scraped  the 
last  damp  ends  of  the  weeds  together  that 
the  fire  might  live  a  little  longer.  Byron's 
poem  came  back  to  me  with  a  new  force; 
and  lying  on  my  stomach  in  the  cheerless  drip 
before  a  drowning  fire,  I  chanted  snatches  of  it 
aloud  to  the  Kid  and  to  that  sinister  person- 
ality that  was  the  Night. 

I  had  a  dream  which  was  not  all  a  dream; 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  eternal  space, 

Rayless  and  pathless;  and  the  icy  earth 

Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air. 

Low  thunder  shook  the  ink-sopped  night — 
I  thought  of  it  as  the  Spirit  of  Byron  applaud- 
ing his  own  terrific  lines. 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained; 
Forests  were  set  on  fire — but  hour  by  hour 
They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguished  with  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  223 

Out  in  the  wind- voiced  darkness,  swept  by 
spasmodic  deluges  of  rapid  flame  and  muffled 
thunder,  it  seemed  I  could  hear  the  dream- 
forests  of  the  moody  Master  crackling  and 
booming  in  the  gloom. 

— looked  up 
With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 
The  pall  of  a  past  world. 

"  Say,  how  long  is  that  piece  ?"  asked  the 
Kid. 

And  vipers  crawled 

And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 

Hissing — 

We  wondered  if  there  might  not  be  some 
rattlesnakes  in  that  vicinity. 

— They  raked  up 

And  shivering,  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hands 

The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 

Blew  for  a  little  life ,  and  made  a  flame 

Which  was  a  mockery;  then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  brighter,  and  beheld 

Each  other's  aspects — saw  and  shrieked  and  died — 

"Cut  that  out!"  said  the  Kid. 
"Why?"  I  asked. 


224  The  River  and  I 

''Because,"  said  the  Kid. 

But  what  are  Bad  Lands  for?  I  had  hoped 
to  chant  a  bit  of  James  Thomson,  the  younger, 
also,  there  in  that  "dreadful  night."  I  never 
was  in  a  place  where  it  seemed  to  fit  so  well. 

But  we  huddled  up  in  our  blanket  under 
the  dripping  shelter,  and  I  gave  myself  over 
to  a  downright,  almost  wickedly  primitive 
feeling.  We  slept  some — but  that  was  a 
rather  long  night.  The  soppy  gray  morning 
came  at  length.  A  midsummer  morning  after 
a  night  of  rain — and  yet,  no  bird,  no  hopeful 
greenery,  no  sense  of  the  upward  yearning 
Earth-Soul! 

When  we  sighted  the  Missouri  River  again, 
the  sun  had  broken  through  upon  the 
greengirt,  glinting  stream.  It  seemed  like 
Paradise. 

By  almost  continuous  travel  we  reached 
Lismus  Ferry  on  the  second  morning  from 
Hell  Creek.  The  ferryman  had  a  bit  of  in- 
formation for  us.  We  would  find  nothing 
at  the  mouth  of  Milk  River  but  a  sandbar, 
he  advised  us.  But  he  had  some  ointment 
to  apply  to  the  wound  thus  inflicted,  in  that 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  227 

Glasgow,  a  town  on  the  Great  Northern,  was 
only  twenty-five  miles  inland.  The  weekly 
stage  had  left  on  the  morning  before;  but  the 
ferryman  understood  that  the  trail  was  not 
overcrowded  with  pedestrians. 

It  was  a  smarting  ointment  to  apply  to  so 
fresh  a  wound;  but  we  took  the  medicine. 
Frank,  Charley,  and  I  set  out  at  once  for 
Glasgow,  leaving  the  others  at  camp  to  repair 
the  leaking  boat  during  our  absence.  The 
stage  trail  led  through  an  arid,  undulating 
prairie  of  yellow  buffalo  grass.  There  were 
creek  beds,  but  they  were  filled  with  dust  at 
this  season  of  the  year.  The  Englishman 
set  the  pace  with  the  stride  of  the  long-legged. 
The  sun  rose  high;  the  dry  runs  reminded  us 
unpleasantly  of  our  increasing  thirst,  and  the 
puffing  wind  blew  hot  as  from  a  distant  prairie 
fire. 

I  followed  at  the  Englishman's  heels,  and 
by  and  by  it  began  to  occur  to  me  that  he 
could  walk  rather  rapidly.  The  Frenchman 
trailed  after  at  a  steadily  increasing  distance, 
until  finally  I  could  no  longer  hear  his  forceful 
remarks  (uttered  in  two  languages)  concern- 


228  The  River  and  I 

ing  a  certain  corn  which  he  possessed.  We 
had  been  cramped  up  in  a  boat  for  several 
weeks,  and  the  frequent  soakings  in  the  cold 
water  had  done  little  good  to  our  joints. 
None  of  us  was  fit  for  walking.  I  kept  back 
a  limp  until  the  Englishman  ahead  of  me 
began  to  step  with  a  little  jerking  of  the 
knees;  and  then  with  an  almost  vicious 
delight,  I  gave  over  and  limped.  I  never 
knew  before  the  great  luxury  of  limping.  We 
covered  the  distance  in  something  less  than 
six  hours. 

The  next  morning,  in  a  drizzling  rain,  each 
packing  a  five-gallon  can  of  gasoline  and 
some  provisions,  we  set  out  for  the  Ferry; 
and  it  was  a  sorry,  bedraggled  trio  that 
limped  up  to  camp  eight  hours  later.  We 
did  little  more  than  creep  the  last  five  miles. 
And  all  for  a  spiteful  little  engine  that  might 
prove  ungrateful  in  the  end! 

It  rained  all  night — a  cold,  insistent  down- 
pour. Our  log  fire  was  drowned  out;  the 
tent  dripped  steadily ;  our  blankets  got  soppy ; 
and  three  of  us  were  so  stiff  that  the  least 
movement  gave  keen  pain. 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  231 

Soppy  dawn — wet  wood — bad  grub  for 
breakfast — and  bad  humor  concealed  with 
difficulty;  but  through  it  all  ran  a  faint  note 
of  victory  at  the  thought  of  the  gasoline,  and 
the  way  that  engine  would  go!  We  lay  in 
camp  all  day — soppy,  sore — waiting  for  the 
rain  to  let  up.  By  way  of  cheering  up  I  read 
L'Assomoir;  and  a  grim  graveyard  substitute 
for  cheer  it  was.  But  the  next  day  broke  with 
a  windy,  golden  dawn.  We  filled  the  tank, 
packed  the  luggage  and  lo !  the  engine  worked ! 
It  took  all  the  soreness  out  of  our  legs  to  see 
it  go. 

We  rejoiced  now  in  the  heavy  and  steadily 
increasing  head  wind;  for  it  was  like  con- 
quering an  old  enemy  to  go  crashing  through 
the  rolling  water  that  had  for  so  many  days 
given  us  pitiless  battle. 

For  five  or  six  miles  we  plunged  on  down  the 
wind-tumbled  river.  There  was  a  distinct 
change  in  the  temper  of  the  crew.  A  vote  at 
that  time  would  have  been  unanimous  for 
finishing  at  New  Orleans. 

Squash! 

The  engine  stopped;  the  Atom  swung  round 


232  The  River  and  I 

in  the  trough  of  the  waves,  and  the  tow-skiff 
rammed  us,  trying  to  climb  over  our  gunwale. 
We  wallowed  in  the  wash  of  a  bar,  and  cranked 
by  turns.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  no  illusions 
were  left  us.  Holding  an  inquest  over  the 
engine,  we  pronounced  it  dead. 

In  the  drear  fag  end  of  the  windy  day, 
soaked  from  much  wading  and  weary  of 
paddling  with  little  headway,  we  made  camp 
in  a  clump  of  scarlet  bull-berry  bushes;  and 
by  the  evening  fire  two  talked  of  railroad 
stations,  one  talked  of  home,  and  I  thought 
of  that  one  of  the  "soldiers  three"  who 
"swore  quietly  into  the  sky." 

The  Milk  River  illusion  was  lost.  Two 
hundred  miles  below  was  the  mouth  of  the 
Yellowstone— the  first  station  in  the  long 
journey.  A  few  days  back  we  had  longed 
for  gasoline;  but  there  was  no  one  to  sell. 
Now  we  had  fifteen  gallons  to  sell — and  there 
was  no  one  to  buy.  The  hope  without  the 
gasoline  was  decidedly  better  than  the  gaso- 
line without  the  hope.  Whereat  the  phi- 
losopher in  me  emerges  to  remark — but  who 
cares?     Philosophy    proceeds  backward,  and 


i.^.m^ 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  235 

points  out  errors  of  thought  and  action  chiefly 
when  it  has  become  too  late  to  mend  them. 
But  it  is  possible  to  be  poor  in  the  possession 
of  erstwhile  prospective  wealth,  and  rich  in 
retrospective  poverty.  Oh,  blessed  is  he 
who  is  negatively  rich ! 

Being  a  bit  stunned  by  the  death  of  the  hope 
conceived  in  weariness,  we  did  not  put  off 
that  night,  but  huddled  up  in  our  blankets 
close  to  the  log  fire;  for  this  midsummer  night 
had  in  it  a  tang  of  frost. 

Day  came — cloudy  and  cold — blown  over 
the  wilderness  by  a  wind  that  made  the 
cottonwoods  above  us  groan  and  pop.  The 
waves  were  higher  than  we  had  seen  them 
before.  We  had  little  heart  for  cordelling, 
and  no  paddling  could  make  headway  against 
that  gale.  It  was  Sunday.  Everything  was 
damp  and  chilly.  Shivers  ran  up  our  backs 
while  we  toasted  our  feet  and  faces;  and  the 
wind-whipt  smoke  had  a  way  of  blowing  in 
every  direction  at  once.  Charley  struggled 
with  the  engine,  which  now  and  then  made 
a  few  revolutions — backwards — by  way  of 
leading  him  on.     He  heaped  big  curses  upon 


236  The  River  and  I 

it,  and  it  replied  periodically  with  snorts  of 
rage. 

Bad  blood  developed,  and  mutiny  ensued, 
which  once  gave  promise  of  pirate-story 
developments — fortunately  warded  off.  Be- 
fore the  day  was  done,  it  was  made  plain  that 
the  Kid  and  I  would  travel  alone  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Yellowstone.  "For,"  said  the 
Kid  with  certain  virile  decorations  of  speech, 
"I  'm  going  with  you  if  we  have  to  buy 
skates!" 

The  wind  fell  at  sunset.  A  chill,  moonless, 
starry  night  lured  me,  and  I  decided  to  travel. 
The  mutineers,  eager  to  reach  a  railroad  as 
soon  as  possible,  agreed  to  go.  The  skiff  led 
and  the  Atom  followed  with  paddles.  A  mile 
or  so  below  we  ran  into  shallows  and  grounded. 
We  waded  far  around  in  the  cold  water  that 
chilled  us  to  the  marrow,  but  could  find  neither 
entrance  nor  outlet  to  the  pocket  in  which  we 
found  ourselves.  Wading  ashore,  we  made  a 
cheerless  camp  in  the  brush,  leaving  the  boats 
stuck  in  the  shallows.  For  the  first  time, 
the  division  in  the  camp  was  well  marked. 
The  Kid  and  I  instinctively  made  our  bed 


ASSINIBOINE  INDIAN  CHIEF 


237 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  239 

together  under  one  blanket,  and  the  others 
bunked  apart.  We  had  become  the  main 
party  of  the  expedition;  the  others  were  now 
merely  enforced  camp  followers.  It  was 
funny  in  an  unpleasant  way. 

In  the  morning  a  sea  of  stiff  fog  hid  our 
boats.  Packing  the  camp  stuff  on  our  backs, 
we  waded  about  and  found  the  crafts. 

At  last,  after  a  number  of  cheerless  days 
and  nights  of  continuous  travel,  the  great, 
open,  rolling  prairies  ahead  of  us  indicated  our 
approach  toward  the  end  of  the  journey's 
first  stage.  The  country  began  to  look  like 
North  Dakota,  though  we  were  still  nearly  two 
hundred  miles  away.  The  monotony  of  the 
landscape  was  depressing.  It  seemed  a  thou- 
sand miles  to  the  sunrise.  The  horizon  was 
merely  a  blue  haze — and  the  endless  land  was 
sere.  The  river  ran  for  days  with  a  succes- 
sion of  regularly  occurring  right-angled  bends 
to  the  north  and  east.  Each  headland  shot 
out  in  the  same  way,  with,  it  seemed,  the 
same  snags  in  the  water  under  it,  and  the 
same  cottonwoods  growing  on  it;  and  oppo- 
site each  headland  was  the  same  stony  bluff, 


240  The  River  and  I 

wind-  and  water-carved  in  the  same  way: 
until  at  last  we  cried  out  against  the  tedious- 
ness  of  the  oft-repeated  story,  wondering 
whether  or  not  we  were  continually  passing 
the  same  point,  and  somehow  slipping  back 
to  pass  it  again. 

But  at  last  we  reached  Wolf  Point — the 
first  town  in  five  hundred  miles.  We  had 
seen  no  town  since  we  left  Benton.  An  odd 
little  burlesque  of  a  town  it  was;  but  walking 
up  its  main  street  we  felt  very  metropolitan 
after  weeks  on  those  lonesome  river  stretches. 

Five  Assiniboine  Indian  girls  seemed  to  be 
the  only  women  in  the  town.  I  coaxed  them 
to  stand  for  a  photograph  on  the  incontest- 
able grounds  that  they  were  by  far  the 
prettiest  women  I  had  seen  for  many  days! 
The  effect  of  my  generous  praise  is  fixed  for- 
ever on  the  pictured  faces  presented  here- 
with. 

Here,  during  the  day,  Frank  and  Charley 
disposed  of  their  skiff  and  we  saw  them  no 
more.  We  pushed  on  with  little  mourning. 
But  in  a  spirit  of  fairness,  let  me  record  that 
Charley's    biscuits    were    marvels,    and    that 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  243 

Frank's  gateaux  a  la  chansonnette  were  things 
of  beauty  and  therefore  joys  forever. 

The  days  that  followed  were  long  and  hard ; 
and  half  the  chilly  nights  were  spent  in  drying 
ourselves  before  a  roaring  fire.  There  were 
more  mosquitoes  now.  They  began  to  tor- 
ture us  at  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  left  off  only  when  the  cold  of  night  came, 
relieving  us  of  one  discomfort  by  the  substitu- 
tion of  another.  Bill,  of  whom  I  had  come 
to  think  as  the  expatriated  turnip,  gave  me 
an  opportunity  to  study  homesickness — at 
once  pitiful  and  ludicrous  in  a  man  with 
abundant  whiskers.  But  he  pulled  strenu- 
ously at  the  forward  paddle,  every  stroke,  as 
he  remarked  often,  taking  him  closer  to  home. 

The  river  had  fallen  alarmingly,  and  was 
still  falling.  Several  times  we  were  obliged 
to  unload  the  entire  cargo,  piling  it  high  in 
the  shallow  water,  that  we  might  be  able  to 
carry  the  empty  boat  to  the  channel. 

One  evening  we  came  upon  a  typical  Mon- 
tana ranch — the  Pen  and  Key.  The  resi- 
dence, barns,  sheds,  fences  were  built  of  logs. 
The    great     rolling     country     about     it    was 


244  The  River  and  I 

thickly  dotted  with  horses  and  cattle.  The 
place  looked  like  home.  It  was  a  sight  from 
Pisgah — a  glimpse  of  a  Promised  Land  after 
the  Wilderness.  We  pulled  in,  intending  to 
buy  some  provisions  for  the  last  stage  of  the 
journey  to  the  Yellowstone. 

I  went  up  to  the  main  ranch-house,  and  was 
met  at  the  door  by  one  of  those  blessed 
creatures  that  have  "mother"  written  all 
over  them.  Hers  were  not  the  eyes  of  a 
stranger.  She  looked  at  me  as  she  must  look 
at  one  of  her  sons  when  he  returns  from  an 
extended  absence.  I  told  at  once  the  pur- 
pose of  my  errand,  explaining  briefly  what 
we  were  doing  on  the  river.  Why,  yes,  cer- 
tainly we  could  have  provisions.  But  we 
were  n't  going  any  farther  that  night — were 
we  ?  The  rancher  appeared  at  this  moment — 
a  retired  major  of  the  army,  who  looked  the 
part — and  decided  that  we  would  stay  for 
supper.  How  many  were  there  in  our  party? 
Three?  "Three  more  plates,"  he  said  to  the 
daughters  of  the  house,  busy  about  the 
kitchen. 

Let  's  be  frank!     It  really  required  no  per- 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  247 

suasion  at  all  to  make  a  guest  of  me.  Had  I 
allowed  myself  adequate  expression  of  my 
delight,  I  should  have  startled  the  good 
mother  by  turning  a  somersault  or  a  series 
of  cartwheels!  Oh,  the  smell  of  an  old- 
fashioned  wholesome  meal  in  process  of 
development ! 

A  short  while  back  I  sang  the  praises  of  the 
feast  in  the  open — the  feast  of  your  own  kill, 
tanged  with  the  wood  smoke.  And  even 
here  I  cling  to  the  statement  that  of  all  meals, 
the  feast  of  wild  meat  in  the  wilderness  takes 
precedence.  But  the  supper  we  ate  that 
evening  takes  close  second.  Welcome  on 
every  face! — the  sort  of  welcome  that  the 
most  lavish  tips  could  not  buy.  And  after 
the  dishes  were  cleared  away,  they  brought 
out  a  phonograph,  and  we  all  sat  round  like 
one  family,  swapping  information  and  yarns 
even  up,  while  the  music  went  on.  When  we 
left  next  morning  at  sunrise,  it  seemed  that 
we  were  leaving  home — and  the  river  reaches 
looked  a  bit  dismal  all  that  day. 

Having  once  been  a  vagabond  in  a  non- 
professional   way,    I    have    a    theory    about 


248  The  River  and  I 

the  physiognomy  of  houses.  Some  have  a 
forbidding,  sick-the-dog-on-you  aspect  about 
them,  not  at  all  due,  I  am  sure,  to  architect- 
ural design.  Experience  has  taught  me  to  be 
suspicious  of  such  houses.  Some  houses  have 
the  appearance  of  death — their  windows  strike 
you  as  eyeless  sockets,  the  doors  look  like 
mouths  that  cannot  speak.  The  great  houses 
along  Fifth  Avenue  seemed  like  that  to  me. 
I  could  walk  past  them  in  the  night  and  feel 
like  a  ghost.  I  have  seen  cottages  that  I 
wanted  to  kneel  to;  and  I  'm  sure  this  feeling 
was  n't  due  to  the  vine  growing  over  the 
porch  or  the  roses  nodding  in  the  yard. 
Knock  at  the  door  of  such  a  house,  and  the 
chances  are  in  favor  of  your  being  met  by  a 
quiet,  motherly  woman— one  who  will  in- 
stantly make  you  think  of  your  own  mother. 
Some  very  well  constructed  houses  look 
surly,  and  some  shabby  ones  look  kind,  some- 
how. If  you  have  ever  been  a  book  agent  or 
a  tramp,  how  you  will  revel  in  this  seeming 
digression!  God  grant  that  no  man  in  need 
may  ever  look  wistfully  at  your  house  or 
at  mine,  and  pass  on  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  249 

It  is  a  subtle  compliment  to  have  book  agents 
and  tramps  frequently  at  one's  door. 

Am  I  really  digressing?  My  theme  is  a 
trip  on  a  great  river.  Well,  kindness  and 
nature  are  not  so  far  apart,  let  us  believe,     i 

Now  this  ranch-house  looked  hospitable; 
there  was  no  mistaking  it.  Wherefore  I 
deduce  that  the  spirit  of  the  inhabitants  must 
pierce  through  and  emanate  from  the  sense- 
less walls  like  an  effluvium.  Who  knows 
but  that  every  house  has  its  telltale  aura, 
plain  to  a  vision  of  sufficient  spiritual  keen- 
ness? Perhaps  some  one  will  some  day  write 
a  book  On  the  Physio-Psychological  Aspect 
of  Houses :  and  there  will  be  an  advance 
sale  of  at  least  one  copy  on  that  book. 

At  noon  on  the  fourth  day  from  the  Pen  and 
Key  Ranch,  we  pulled  up  at  the  Mondak 
landing  two  miles  above  the  mouth  of  the 
Yellowstone.  We  were  thoroughly  soaked, 
having  dragged  the  boat  the  last  two  or  three 
miles  through  the  shallows  and  intermittent 
deeps  of  an  inside  channel.  The  outer  chan- 
nel was  rolling  viciously  in  that  eternal  thing, 
the  head  wind.    We  had  covered  the  first  six 


250  The  River  and  I 

hundred  miles  with  a  power  boat  (called  so, 
doubtless,  because  it  required  so  much  power 
to  shove  it  along!)  in  a  little  less  than  four 
weeks.  During  that  time  we  had  received 
no  mail,  and  I  was  making  a  break  for  the 
post-office,  oozing  and  feeling  like  an  ani- 
mated sponge,  when  a  great  wind-like  voice 
roared  above  me:     "Hey  there!  " 

I  looked  up  to  the  hurricane  deck  of  a 
steamer  that  lay  at  the  bank  taking  on 
freight.  A  large  elderly  man,  dressed  like 
a  farmer,  with  an  exaggerated  straw  hat 
shading  a  face  that  gripped  my  attention  at 
once,  was  looking  down  at  me.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  born  commander;  it  struck  me  that 
I  should  like  to  have  it  cast  in  bronze  to  look 
at  whenever  a  vacillating  mood  might  seize 
me. 

' '  Come  aboard  !  ' '  bawled  the  man  under  the 
ample  hat.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world 
just  then  that  I  wished  for  more  than  my 
mail;  but  somehow  I  felt  the  will  to  obey — 
even  the  necessity  of  obeying. 

"You  came  from  Benton?"  he  asked,  when 
I  had  clambered  up  the  forward  companion- 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  253 

way  and  stood  dripping  before  the  captain  of 
the  steamer  Expansion.  At  this  closer  range, 
the  strength  of  the  face  was  even  more  impres- 
sive, with  its  eagle  beak  and  its  lines  of  firm- 
ness ;  but  a  light  of  kindness  was  shed  through 
it,  and  the  eyes  took  on  a  gentle  expression. 

"How  did  you  find  the  water?" 

"Very  low,  sir;  we  cordelled  much  of  the 
way." 

"I  tried  to  get  this  boat  to  Benton,"  he  said, 
"  and  got  hung  up  on  the  rocks  above  Lismus 
Ferry." 

"And  we  drifted  over  them  helter-skelter 
at  midnight ! ' ' 

He  smiled,  and  we  were  friends.  Thus  I 
met  Captain  Grant  Marsh,  the  Grand  Old 
Man  of  the  Missouri  River.  He  was  freight- 
ing supplies  up  the  Yellowstone  for  the  great 
Crane  Creek  irrigation  dam,  sixty  miles  above 
the  mouth.  The  Expansion  was  to  sail  on  the 
following  day,  and  I  was  invited  to  go  along. 
Seeing  that  the  Captain  was  short  of  help, 
I  insisted  upon  enlisting  as  a  deck  hand  for 
the  trip. 

It  was  work,   very  hard  work.     I  think  I 


254  The  River  and  I 

should  prefer  hod-carrying  as  a  profession, 
for  we  had  a  heavy  cargo,  ranging  from  lum- 
ber and  tiling  to  flour  and  beer;  and  there 
are  no  docks  on  the  Yellowstone.  The  banks 
were  steep,  the  sun  was  very  hot,  and  the 
cargo  had  to  be  landed  by  man  power.  My 
companions  in  toil  swore  bitterly  about  every- 
thing in  general  and  steamboating  in  particular. 

"How  much  are  you  getting?"  asked  a 
young  Dane  of  me,  as  we  trudged  up  the 
plank  together. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  I  said. 

He  swore  an  oath  of  wonder,  and  stopped 
to  look  me  over  carefully  for  the  loose  screw 
in  my  make-up. 

" — nothing  but  the  fun  of  it,"  I  added. 

He  sniffed  and  looked  bewildered. 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,"  said  I,  "that  a 
man  will  do  for  nothing  what  he  would  n't  do 
for  money?" 

I  could  see  my  conundrum  playing  peek-a- 
boo  all  about  his  stolid  features.  After  that 
the  Dane  treated  me  with  an  air  of  superior- 
ity— the  superiority  of  thirty  dollars  per 
month  over  nothing  at  all. 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  257 

We  stopped  twice  to  coal,  and  worked  far 
into  the  night.  There  are  no  coal  chutes  on 
the  Yellowstone.  We  carried  and  wheeled 
the  stuff  aboard  from  a  pile  on  the  bank. 
During  a  brief  interval  of  rest,  the  young 
Dane  announced  to  the  others  that  I  was 
working  for  nothing ;  whereat  questioning  eyes 
were  turned  upon  me  in  the  dull  lantern  light; 
whereupon  I  thought  of  the  world-old  mutual 
misunderstanding  between  the  proletaire  and 
the  dreamer.  And  I  said  to  myself:  I  can 
conceive  of  heaven  only  as  an  improbable  con- 
dition in  which  all  men  would  be  willing  and 
able  to  work  for  nothing  at  all.  I  had  read 
in  the  Dane's  face  the  meaning  of  a  price. 
Heaving  coal,  I  built  Utopias. 

When  the  boat  was  under  way,  I  sat  in 
the  pilot-house  with  the  Captain,  watching 
the  yellow  flood  and  the  yellow  cliffs  drift 
past  like  a  vision.  And  little  by  little,  this 
old  man  who  has  followed  the  river  for  over 
sixty  years,  pieced  out  the  wonderful  story 
of  his  life — a  story  fit  for  Homer.  That  story 
may  now  be  read  in  a  book,  so  I  need  not  tell 
it  here.     But  I  came  to  think  of  him  as  the 


258  The  River  and  I 

incarnation  of  the  river's  mighty  spirit;  and 
I  am  proud  that  I  served  him  as  a  deck  hand. 

As  we  steamed  out  of  the  Yellowstone  into 
the  clear  waters  of  the  Missouri,  the  Captain 
pointed  out  to  me  the  spot  upon  which  Fort 
Union  stood.  Upon  landing,  I  went  there 
and  found  two  heaps  of  stone  at  the  opposite 
corners  of  a  rectangle  traced  by  a  shallow 
ditch  where  of  old  the  walls  stood.  This 
was  all  that  remained  of  the  powerful  fort — ■ 
virtually  the  capital  of  the  American  Fur 
Company's  Upper  Missouri  empire — where 
Mackenzie  ruled — Mackenzie  who  was  called 
King! 

Long  slough  grass  grew  there,  and  blue 
waxen  flowers  struggled  up  amid  the  rubble 
of  what  were  once  defiant  bastions.  I  lay 
down  in  the  luxuriant  grass,  closed  my  eyes, 
and  longed  for  a  vision  of  heroic  days.  I 
thought  of  the  Prince  who  had  been  enter- 
tained there  with  his  great  retinue;  of  the 
regality  of  the  haughty  Scotchman  who  ruled 
there;  of  Alexander  Harvey,  who  had  killed 
his  enemy  on  the  very  spot,  doubtless,  where 
I  lay:   killed  him  as  an  outraged  brave  man 


On  to  the  Yellowstone  259 

kills — face  to  face  before  the  world.  I  thought 
of  Bourbonais,  the  golden-haired  Paris  of  this 
fallen  Ilium.  I  thought  of  the  plague  that 
raged  there  in  '37,  and  of  Larpenteur  and  his 
friend,  grim,  jesting  carters  of  the  dead! 

It  all  passed  before  me — the  unwritten 
Iliad  of  a  stronghold  forgotten.  But  the 
vision  would  n't  come.  The  river  wind 
moaned  through  the  grasses. 

I  looked  off  a  half-mile  to  the  modern  town 
of  Mondak,  and  wondered  how  many  in  that 
town  cared  about  this  spot  where  so  much 
had  happened,  and  where  the  grass  grew  so 
very  tall  now. 

I  gathered  blue  flowers  and  quoted,  with 
a  slight  change,  the  lines  of  Stevenson: 

But  ah,  how  deep  the  grass 
Along  the  battlefield! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DOWN  FROM  THE  YELLOWSTONE 

T^HE  geographer  tells  us  that  the  mouth  of 
the  Missouri  is  about  seventeen  miles 
above  St.  Louis,  and  that  the  mouth  of  the 
Yellowstone  is  near  Buford,  North  Dakota. 
It  appeared  to  me  that  the  fact  is  inverted. 
The  Missouri's  mouth  is  near  Buford,  and 
the  Yellowstone  empties  directly  into  the 
Mississippi ! 

I  find  that  I  am  not  alone  in  this  opinion. 
Father  de  Smet  and  other  early  travellers 
felt  the  truth  of  it;  and  Captain  Marsh,  who 
has  piloted  river  craft  through  every  navi- 
gable foot  of  the  entire  system  of  rivers,  hav- 
ing sailed  the  Missouri  within  sound  of  the 
Falls  and  the  Yellowstone  above  Pompey's 
Pillar,  feels  that  the  Yellowstone  is  the  main 
stem  and  the  Missouri  a  tributary. 

Where  the  two   rivers  join,   even   at  low 
260 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       261 

water,  the  Yellowstone  pours  a  vast  turbulent 
flood,  compared  with  which  the  clear  and 
quieter  Missouri  appears  an  overgrown  rain- 
water creek.  The  Mississippi  after  some 
miles  obliterates  all  traces  of  its  great  western 
tributary;  but  the  Missouri  at  Buford  is 
entirely  lost  in  the  Yellowstone  within  a  few 
hundred  yards.  All  of  the  unique  character- 
istics by  which  the  Missouri  River  is  known 
are  given  to  it  by  the  Yellowstone — its  tur- 
bulence, its  tawniness,  its  feline  treachery,  its 
giant  caprices. 

Examine  closely,  and  everything  will  take 
on  before  your  eyes  either  masculine  or 
feminine  traits.  Gender,  in  a  broad  sense,  is 
universal,  and  nothing  was  created  neuter. 
The  Upper  Missouri  is  decidedly  female: 
an  Amazon,  to  be  sure,  but  nevertheless  not  a 
man.  Beautiful,  she  is,  alluring  or  terrible, 
but  always  womanlike.  But  when  you  strike 
the  ragged  curdling  line  of  muddy  water 
where  the  Yellowstone  comes  in,  it  is  all 
changed.  You  feel  the  sinewy,  nervous  might 
of  the  man. 

So  it  is,  that  when  you  look  upon  the  Mis- 


262  The  River  and  I 

souri  at  Kansas  City,  it  is  the  Yellowstone 
that  you  behold ! 

But  names  are  idle  sounds;  and  being  of  a 
peace-loving  disposition,  I  would  rather  with- 
draw my  contention  than  seriously  disturb 
the  geographical  status  quo  !  Let  it  be  said 
that  the  Upper  Missouri  is  the  mother  and 
the  Yellowstone  the  father  of  this  turbulent 
Titan,  who  inherits  his  father's  might  and 
wonder,  and  takes  through  courtesy  the 
maiden  name  of  his  mother.  There!  I  am 
quite  appeased,  and  the  geographers  may 
retain  their  nomenclature. 

At  Mondak,  Luck  stood  bowing  to  receive 
us.  The  Atom  I  had  suffered  more  from  con- 
tact with  snags  and  rocks  than  we  had  sup- 
posed. For  several  hundred  miles  her  intake 
of  water  had  steadily  increased.  We  had 
toiled  at  the  paddles  with  the  water  half-way 
to  our  knees  much  of  the  time;  though  now 
and  then — by  spasms — we  bailed  her  dry. 
She  had  become  a  floating  lump  of  discourage- 
ment, and  still  fourteen  hundred  miles  lay 
ahead. 

But  on  the  day  previous  to  our  sailing,  a 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       265 

nervous  little  man  with  a  wistful  eye  offered 
us  a  trade.  He  had  a  steel  boat,  eighteen 
feet  long,  forty  inches  beam,  which  he  had 
built  in  the  hours  between  work  and  sleep 
during  the  greater  part  of  a  year. 

His  boat  was  some  miles  up  the  Yellowstone, 
but  he  spoke  of  her  in  so  artless  and  loving  a 
manner — as  a  true  workman  might  speak — 
and  with  such  a  wistful  eye  cast  upon  our 
boat,  that  I  believed  in  him  and  his  boat. 
He  had  no  engine.  It  was  the  engine  in  our 
boat  that  attracted  him,  as  he  wished  to  make 
a  hunting  trip  up  river  in  the  fall.  He  stated 
that  his  boat  would  float,  that  it  was  a  dry 
boat,  that  it  would  row  with  considerable 
ease.  "Then,"  said  I,  " paddle  her  down  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Yellowstone,  and  the  deal  is 
made."  After  dark  he  returned  to  our  camp 
with  a  motor  boat,  ready  to  take  us  to  our  new 
craft,  Atom  II. 

Leaving  all  our  impedimenta  to  be  shipped 
by  rail,  that  is,  Bill,  the  tent,  extra  blankets, 
phonograph — everything  but  a  few  cooking- 
utensils,  an  axe,  a  tarp,  and  a  pair  of  blankets 
— the  Kid  and  I  got  in  with  the  little  man 


266  The  River  and  I 

and  dropped  down  to  the  Yellowstone.  The 
new  boat  was  moored  under  a  mud  bank. 
I  climbed  in,  lit  a  match,  and  my  heart  leaped 
with  joy.  She  was  staunch  and  beautiful — a 
work  of  love,  which  means  a  work  of  honesty. 
Fore  and  aft  were  air-tight  compartments. 
She  had  an  oil  tank,  a  water  tank,  engine 
housing,  steering  wheel,  lockers.  She  was 
ready  for  the  very  engine  I  had  ordered  to  be 
shipped  to  me  at  Bismarck.  She  was  dry  as 
a  bone,  and  broad  enough  to  make  a  snug 
bed  for  two. 

The  little  man  and  the  motor  boat  dropped 
out  into  the  gloom  and  left  us  gloating  over 
our  new  possession,  sending  thankful  rings 
of  tobacco  smoke  at  the  stars.  When  the 
first  flush  of  triumph  had  passed,  we  rolled  up 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  lulled  to  sleep  by 
the  cooing  of  the  fusing  rivers,  united  under 
our  gunwale.  Such  a  sleep — a  dry  sleep! 
and  the  sides  of  the  boat  protected  us  against 
the  chill  night  wind. 

And  the  dawn  came — shouting  merrily  like 
a  boy!  I  once  had  a  chum  who  had  a  habit 
of  whistling  me  out  of  bed  now  and  then  of  a 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      269 

summer  morning,  when  the  birds  were  just 
awakening,  and  the  dew  looked  like  frost  on 
the  grass.  And  the  sun  that  morning  made 
me  think  of  my  old  boy  chum  with  his  blithe, 
persistent  whistling.  For  the  first  hard  stage 
of  the  journey  was  done;  all  had  left  me  but 
a  brave  lad  who  would  take  his  share  of  the 
hardships  with  a  light  heart.  (All  boys  are 
instinctively  true  sportsmen!)  And  before 
us  lay  the  great  winding  stretch  of  a  savage 
river  that  I  had  loved  long— the  real  Missouri 
of  my  boyhood. 

A  new  spirit  had  come  upon  us  with  the 
possession  of  the  Atom  II— the  spirit  of  the 
forced  march.  For  nearly  a  month  we  had 
floundered,  trusting  to  a  sick  engine  and  ineffi- 
cient paddles.  Now  we  had  a  staunch,  dry 
boat,  and  eight-foot  oars.  We  trusted  only 
ourselves,  and  we  were  one  in  the  desire  to 
push  the  crooked  yellow  miles  behind  us. 
During  the  entire  fourteen  hundred  miles 
that  desire  increased,  until  our  progress  was 
little  more  than  a  retreat.  We  pitched  no 
camps;  we  halted  only  when  we  could  pro- 
ceed no  further  owing  to  sandbars  encountered 


270  The  River  and  I 

in  the  dark;  we  ate  as  we  found  it  convenient 
to  do  so.  Regularly  relieving  each  other  at 
the  oars,  one  sat  at  the  steering  wheel,  feeling 
for  the  channel.  And  it  was  not  long  until  I 
began  to  note  a  remarkable  change  in  the 
muscles  of  the  Kid,  for  we  toiled  naked  to  the 
waist  most  of  the  time.  His  muscles  had 
shown  little  more  than  a  girl's  when  we  first 
swam  together  at  Benton.  Now  they  began 
to  stand  out,  clearly  defined,  those  of  his  chest 
sprawling  rigidly  downward  to  the  lean  ribs, 
and  little  eloquent  knots  developed  on  the 
bronzed  surface  of  his  once  smooth  arms. 
He  was  at  the  age  of  change,  and  he  was  grow- 
ing into  a  man  before  my  eyes.  It  was  good 
to  see. 

All  the  first  day  the  gods  breathed  gently 
upon  us,  and  we  made  fifty  miles,  passing 
Trenton  and  Williston  before  dark.  But  the 
following  day,  our  old  enemy,  the  head  wind, 
came  with  the  dawn.  We  were  now  sailing 
a  river  more  than  twice  the  size  of  the  Upper 
Missouri,  and  the  waves  were  in  proportion. 
Each  at  an  oar,  with  the  steering  wheel  lashed, 
we  forged  on  slowly  but  steadily.     In  mid- 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      273 

stream  we  found  it  impossible  to  control  the 
boat,  and  though  we  hugged  the  shore  when- 
ever possible,  we  were  obliged  to  cross  with 
the  channel  at  every  bend.  When  the  waves 
caught  us  broadside,  we  were  treated  to  many 
a  compulsory  bath,  and  our  clothes  were 
thoroughly  washed  without  being  removed. 
An  ordinary  skiff  would  have  capsized  early  in 
the  day,  but  the  Atom  II  could  carry  a  full 
cargo  of  water  and  still  float. 

By  sunset  the  wind  fell,  the  river  smoothed 
as  a  wrinkled  brow  at  the  touch  of  peace. 
Aided  by  a  fair  current,  we  skulled  along  in 
the  hush  of  evening  through  a  land  of  vast 
green  pastures  with  "cattle  upon  a  thousand 
hills."  The  great  wind  had  spread  the 
heavens  with  ever  deepening  clouds.  The 
last  reflected  light  of  the  sun  fell  red  upon  the 
burnished  surface  of  the  water.  It  seemed 
we  were  sailing  a  river  of  liquified  red  flame; 
only  for  a  short  distance  about  us  was  the 
water  of  that  peculiar  Missouri  hue  which 
makes  one  think  of  bad  coffee  colored  with 
condensed  milk. 

Slowly  the  colors  changed,  until  we  were 


274  The  River  and  I 

in  the  midst  of  a  stream  of  iridescent  opal 
fires ;  and  quite  lost  in  the  gorgeous  spectacle, 
at  length  we  found  ourselves  upon  a  bar. 

We  got  out  and  waded  around  in  water 
scarcely  to  our  ankles,  feeling  for  a  channel. 
The  sand  was  hard ;  the  bar  seemed  to  extend 
across  the  entire  river;  but  a  thin  rippling 
line  some  fifty  yards  ahead  told  us  where  it 
ended.  We  found  it  impossible  to  push  the 
heavy  boat  over  the  shallows.  The  clouds 
were  deepening,  and  the  night  was  coming 
rapidly.  Setting  the  Kid  to  work  digging 
with  an  oar  at  the  prow,  I  pushed  and  wrig- 
gled the  stern  until  I  saw  galaxies.  Thus 
alternately  digging  and  pushing,  we  at  last 
reached  navigable  depths. 

It  was  now  quite  dark.  Low  thunder  was 
rolling,  and  now  and  then  vivid  flashes  of 
lightning  discovered  the  moaning  river  to  us — 
ghastly  and  forbidding  in  the  momentary 
glare.  We  decided  to  pull  in  for  the  night; 
but  in  what  direction  should  we  pull?  A 
drizzling  rain  had  begun  to  fall,  and  the  sheet 
lightning  glaring  through  it  only  confused 
us — more  than  the  sooty  darkness  that  show- 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       275 

ered  in  upon  us  after  the  rapid  flashes.  We 
sat  still  and  waited.  In  the  intermittent 
silences,  the  rain  hissed  on  the  surface  of  the 
river  like  a  shower  of  innumerable  heated 
pebbles.  Ahead  of  us  we  heard  the  dull 
booming  of  the  cut  banks,  as  the  current 
undermined  ponderous  ledges  of  sand. 

Now,  a  boat  that  happens  under  a  falling 
cut  bank,  passes  at  once  into  the  region  of  for- 
gotten things.  The  boat  would  follow  the 
main  current;  the  main  current  flows  always 
under  the  cut  banks.  How  long  would  it 
take  us  to  get  there?  Which  way  should  we 
pull?  Put  a  simpler  question:  In  which  way 
were  we  moving?  We  had  n't  the  least 
conception  of  direction.  For  us  the  night  had 
only  one  dimension — out  ! 

Finally  a  great  booming  and  splashing 
sounded  to  our  left,  and  the  boat  rocked 
violently  a  moment  after.  We  grasped  the 
oars  and  pulled  blindly  in  what  we  supposed 
to  be  the  opposite  direction,  only  to  be  met 
by  another  roar  of  falling  sand  from  that 
quarter. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  do  but  have 


276  The  River  and  I 

faith  in  that  divinity  which  is  said  to  superin- 
tend the  goings  and  comings  of  fools  and 
drunkards.  Therefore  we  abandoned  the  oars, 
twiddled  our  thumbs,  and  let  her  drift.  We 
could  n't  even  smoke,  for  the  rain  was  now 
coming  down  merrily.  The  Kid  thought  it 
a  great  lark,  and  laughed  boisterously  at  our 
predicament.  By  flashes  I  saw  the  drenched 
grin  under  his  dripping  nose.  But  for  me, 
some  lines  written  by  that  sinister  genius, 
Wain wright,  came  back  with  a  new  force,  and 
clamored  to  be  spoken: 

"  Darkness — sooty,  portentous  darkness — 
shrouds  the  whole  scene;  as  if  through  a  horrid 
rift  in  a  murky  ceiling,  a  rainy  deluge —  'sleety 
flaw,  discolored  water  ' — streams  down  amain, 
spreading  a  grisly  spectral  light,  even  more  hor- 
rible than  that  palpable  night." 

At  length  the  sensation  of  sudden  stopping 
dizzied  us  momentarily.  We  thrust  out  an 
oar  and  felt  a  slowly  sloping  bar.  Driving 
the  oar  half-way  into  the  soft  sand,  we  wrapped 
the  boat's  chain  about  it  and  went  to  bed, 
flinging  the  tarp  over  us. 

A    raw   dawn   wind    sprinkled    a   cheerless 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       277 

morning  over  us,  and  we  got  up  with  our 
joints  grinding  rustily.  We  were  in  the  midst 
of  a  desolate  waste  of  sand  and  water.  The 
bar  upon  which  we  had  lodged  was  utterly- 
bare.  Drinking  a  can  of  condensed  milk 
between  us,  we  pushed  on. 

That  day  we  found  ourselves  in  the  country 
of  red  barns.  It  was  like  warming  cold 
hands  before  an  open  grate  to  look  upon 
them.  At  noon  we  saw  the  first  wheat-field 
of  the  trip — an  undulating  golden  flood, 
dimpled  with  the  tripping  feet  of  the  wind. 
These  were  two  joys — quite  enough  for  one 
day.  But  in  the  afternoon  the  third  came — 
the  first  golden-rod.  My  first  impulse  was 
to  take  off  my  hat  to  it,  offer  it  my  hand. 

That  evening  we  pulled  up  to  a  great  bank, 
black-veined  with  outcrops  of  coal,  and 
cooked  supper  over  a  civilized  fire.  For 
many  miles  along  the  river  in  North  Dakota, 
as  well  as  along  the  Yellowstone  in  Montana, 
these  coal  outcrops  are  in  evidence.  Doubt- 
less, within  another  generation,  vast  mining 
operations  will  be  opened  up  in  these  localities. 
Coal  barges  will  be  loaded  at  the  mines  and 


278  The  River  and  I 

dropped  down  stream  to  the  nearest  railroad 
point. 

We  were  in  the  midst  of  an  idyllic  country — 
green,  sloping,  lawn-like  pastures,  dotted 
sparsely  with  grotesque  scrub  oaks.  Far 
over  these  the  distant  hills  lifted  in  filmy  blue. 
The  bluffs  along  the  water's  edge  were  streaked 
with  black  and  red  and  yellow,  their  colors 
deepened  by  the  recent  rains.  Lazy  with  a 
liberal  supper,  we  drifted  idly  and  gave  our- 
selves over  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  spell  of 
this  twilight  dreamland.  I  stared  hard  upon 
this  scene  that  would  have  delighted  Theo- 
critus; and  with  little  effort,  I  placed  a  half  - 
naked  shepherd  boy  under  the  umbrella  top 
of  that  scrub  oak  away  up  yonder  on  the 
lawny  slope.  With  his  knees  huddled  to  his 
chin,  I  saw  him,  his  fresh  cheeks  bulged  with 
the  breath  of  music.  I  heard  his  pipe — 
clear,  dream-softened — the  silent  music  of  my 
own  heart.  Dream  flocks  sprawled  tinkling 
up  the  hills. 

With  a  wild  burst  of  scarlet,  the  sunset 
flashed  out.  Black  clouds  darkened  the  vis- 
ible idyll.     A  chill  gust  swept  across  stream, 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       279 

showering  rain  and  darkness.  Each  at  an 
oar,  we  forged  on,  until  we  lost  the  channel  in 
the  gloom.  At  the  first  peep  of  day  we  were 
off  again,  after  a  breakfast  of  pancakes, 
bacon,  and  coffee. 

We  were  gradually  becoming  accustomed 
to  the  strain  of  constant  rowing.  For  at 
least  sixteen  hours  a  day  we  fought  the  wind, 
during  which  time  the  oars  were  constantly 
dipping;  and  very  often  our  day  lengthened 
out  to  twenty  hours.  We  had  no  time-piece, 
and  a  night  of  drifting  was  divided  into  two 
watches.  These  watches  we  determined 
either  by  the  dropping  of  a  star  toward  the 
horizon,  or  by  the  position  of  the  moon  when 
it  shone.  On  dark  nights,  the  sleeper  trusted 
to  the  judgment  of  his  friend  to  call  when  the 
watch  seemed  sufficiently  long.  Daily  the 
water  fell,  and  every  inch  of  fall  increased 
the  difficulty  of  travelling. 

We  were  now  passing  through  the  country 
of  the  Mandans,  Gros  Ventres,  and  Ricarees, 
the  country  through  which  old  Hugh  Glass 
crawled  his  hundred  miles  with  only  hate  to 
sustain   him.     To   the   west   lay   the   barren 


280  The  River  and  I 

lands  of  the  Little  Missouri,  through  which 
Sully  pushed  with  his  military  expedition 
against  the  Sioux  on  the  Yellowstone.  An 
army  flung  boldly  through  a  dead  land — a 
land  without  forage,  and  waterless — a  laby- 
rinth of  dry  ravines  and  ghastly  hills!  Sully 
called  it  "hell  with  the  lights  out."  A  mag- 
nificent, Quixotic  expedition  that  succeeded! 
I  compared  it  with  the  ancient  expeditions — 
and  I  felt  the  eagle's  wings  strain  within  me. 
Sully  I  There  were  trumpets  and  purple 
banners  for  me  in  the  sound  of  the  name! 

Late  in  the  evening  we  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  Little  Missouri.  There  we  found  one 
of  the  few  remaining  mud  lodges  of  the  an- 
cient type.  We  landed  and  found  ourselves 
in  the  midst  of  a  forsaken  little  frontier  town. 
A  shambling  shack  bore  the  legend,  "Store," 
with  the  "S"  looking  backward — perhaps 
toward  dead  municipal  hopes.  A  few  tumble- 
down frame  and  log  shanties  sprawled  up  the 
desultory  grass-grown  main  street,  at  one  end 
of  which  dwelt  a  Mandan  Indian  family  in 
the  mud  lodge. 

A  dozen  curs  from  the  lodge  resented  our 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       281 

intrusion  with  canine  vituperation.  I  thrust 
my  head  into  the  log-cased  entrance  of  the 
circular  house  of  mud,  and  was  greeted  with 
a  sound  scolding  in  the  Mandan  jargon, 
delivered  by  a  squaw  of  at  least  eighty  years. 
She  arose  from  the  fire  that  burned  in  the 
centre  of  the  great  circular  room,  and  ap- 
proached me  with  an  "I-want-your-scalp" 
expression.  One  of  her  daughters,  a  girl 
dressed  in  a  caricature  of  the  white  girl's  gar- 
ments, said  to  me :  "She  wants  to  know  what 
you  've  got  to  trade."  To  this  old  woman 
of  the  prairie,    all  white   men  were  traders. 

"I  want  to  buy,"  I  said,  "eggs,  meat, 
bread,  anything  to  eat." 

The  old  woman  looked  me  over  with  a 
whimper  of  amused  superiority,  and  disap- 
peared, soon  reappearing  with  a  dark  brown 
object  not  wholly  unlike  a  loaf  of  bread. 
"Wahtoo,"  she  remarked,  pointing  to  the 
dark  brown  substance. 

I  gave  her  a  half-dollar.  Very  quietly  she 
took  it  and  went  back  to  her  fire.  "But," 
said  I,  "do  you  sell  your  bread  for  fifty  cents 
per  loaf?" 


282  The  River  and  I 

The  girl  giggled,  and  the  old  woman  gave 
me  another  piece  of  her  Mandan  mind.  She 
had  no  change,  it  appeared.  I  then  insisted 
upon  taking  the  balance  in  eggs.  The  old 
woman  said  she  had  no  eggs.  I  pointed  to  a 
flock  of  hens  that  was  holding  a  sort  of 
woman's  club  convention  in  the  yard,  dis- 
cussing the  esthetics  of  egg-laying,  doubtless, 
while  neglecting  their  nests. 

The  old  lady  arose  majestically,  disap- 
peared again,  and  reappeared  with  three  eggs. 
I  protested.  The  Mandan  lady  forthwith 
explained  (or  at  least  it  appeared  so  to  me) 
all  the  execrable  points  in  my  character. 
They  seemed  to  be  numerous,  and  she  ap- 
peared to  be  very  frank  about  the  matter.  My 
moral  condition,  apparently,  was  clearly  de- 
fined in  her  own  mind.  I  withdrew  in  haste, 
fearing  that  the  daughter  at  any  moment 
might  begin  to  translate. 

We  dropped  down  river  a  few  miles,  pre- 
pared supper,  and  attacked  the  dark  brown 
substance  which  the  Indian  lady  had  called 
"wahtoo."  At  the  first  bite,  I  began  to 
learn   the    Mandan   tongue.     I    swallowed   a 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      283 

chunk  whole,  and  then  enlightened  the  Kid 
as  to  a  portion  of  the  Mandan  language. 
"Wahtoo,"  said  I,  "means  'indigestible';  it  is 
an  evident  fact."  Then,  being  strengthened 
by  our  linguistic  triumph,  we  fell  upon  the 
dark  brown  substance  again.  But  almost 
anything  has  its  good  points;  and  I  can 
conscientiously  recommend  Mandan  bread 
for  durability! 

Once  more  we  had  a  rainy  night.  The 
tarp,  stretched  across  the  boat,  sagged  with 
the  water  it  caught,  and  poured  little  persist- 
ent streams  upon  us.  The  chief  of  these 
streams,  from  point  of  size,  seemed  con- 
sciously aiming  at  my  ear.  Thrice  I  turned 
over,  shifted  my  position;  thrice  I  was  awak- 
ened by  the  sound  of  a  merry  brooklet  pouring 
into  that  persecuted  member. 

Somewhere  in  the  world  the  white  cock 
was  crowing  sleepily  when  we  put  off,  stiff 
and  soaked  and  shivering. 

Early  in  the  day  the  fine  sand  from  banks 
and  bars  began  to  lift  in  the  wind.  It 
smarted  our  faces  like  little  whip  lashes. 
Very  often  we  could  see  no  further  than  a 


284  The  River  and  I 

hundred  and  fifty  yards  in  any  direction. 
Only  by  a  constant,  rapid  dipping  of  the  oars 
could  the  boat  be  held  perpendicular  to  the 
choppy  waves.  One  stroke  missed  meant 
hard  work  for  both  of  us  in  getting  out  of  the 
trough. 

Fighting  every  foot  of  water,  we  wallowed 
through  the  swells — past  Elbow  Woods,  past 
Fort  Berthold,  past  the  forlorn,  raggedy 
little  town,  "Expansion."  (We  rechristened 
it  "Contraction"!) 

During  the  day  the  gale  swept  the  sky 
clear.  The  evening  air  was  crisp  and  invigo- 
rating. We  cooked  supper  early  and  rowed 
on  silently  over  the  mirroring  waters,  between 
two  vast  sheets  of  stars,  through  a  semi- 
lucent  immensity.  Far  ahead  of  us  a  high 
cliff  loomed  black  and  huge  against  the 
spangled  blue-black  velvet  of  the  sky.  On 
its  summit  a  dark  mass  soared  higher.  We 
thought  it  a  tree,  but  surely  a  gigantic  one. 
Approaching  it,  the  soaring  mass  became  a 
medieval  castle  sitting  haughtily  with  frown- 
ing crenellations  upon  an  impregnable  rock; 
and  the  Missouri  became  for  the  moment  a 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       287 

larger  Rhine.  At  last,  rowing  up  under  the 
sheer  cliff,  the  castle  resolved  itself  into  a 
huge  grain  elevator,  its  base  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  stream. 

Although  it  was  late,  we  tied  our  boat, 
clambered  up  a  zigzag  path,  and  found  our- 
selves in  one  of  the  oddest  little  towns  in  the 
West — Manhaven — one  of  the  few  remaining 
steamboat  towns. 

The  main  street  zigzagged  carelessly 
through  a  jumble  of  little  houses.  One  light 
in  all  the  street  designated  the  social  centre  of 
the  town,  so  we  went  there.  It  was  the 
grocery  store — a  general  emporium  of  ideas 
and  canned  goods. 

Entering,  we  found  ourselves  in  the  midst 
of  "the  rustic  cackle  of  the  burg."  I  am  sure 
the  municipal  convention  was  verbally  re- 
constructing the  universe;  but  upon  our  en- 
trance, the  matter  was  abruptly  laid  on  the 
table.  When  we  withdrew,  the  entire  con- 
vention, including  the  grocery  man,  adjourned, 
and  accompanied  us  to  the  river  where  the 
general  merits  of  our  boat  were  thoroughly 
discussed    by    lantern    light.     Also,    various 


288  The  River  and  I 

conflicting  versions  of  the  distance  to  Bis- 
marck were  given — each  party  being  certain 
of  his  own  infallibility. 

There  is  something  curious  about  the 
average  man's  conception  of  distance.  Dur- 
ing the  entire  trip  we  found  no  two  men  who 
agreed  on  this  general  subject.  After  acquir- 
ing a  book  of  river  distances,  we  created 
much  amusement  for  ourselves  by  asking 
questions.  The  conversation  very  often  pro- 
ceeded in  this  manner: 

"Will  you  please  tell  us  how  far  it  is  to 
So-and-So?" 

"One  hundred  and  fifty-two  and  a  half 
miles!"  (with  an  air  of  absolute  certainty). 

"But  you  are  slightly  mistaken,  sir;  the 
exact  distance  is  sixty -two  and  seven  tenths 
miles!"  (Consternation  on  the  face  of  the 
omniscient  informant.) 

Once  a  man  told  us  that  a  certain  town 
was  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  down  stream. 
We  reached  the  town  in  an  hour  and  a  half ! 

Information  and  advice  are  the  two  things 
in  this  world  that  the  average  man  will  give 
gladly;  and    in    ninety-nine    cases    out    of   a 


19 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       291 

possible  hundred,  he  is  mistaken.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  in  most  cases  there  is  no  lying 
intent.  A  curious  chapter  could  be  written  on 
"The  Psychology  of  Information  and  Advice." 

However,  we  had  more  success  with  the 
Indian.  On  day  we  came  upon  an  old  Man- 
dan  buck  and  squaw,  who  were  taking  a  bath 
in  the  river,  doubtless  feeling  convinced  that 
they  needed  it.  The  current  took  us  within 
fifty  yards  of  them.  Upon  our  approach, 
they  got  out  of  the  water  and  sat  in  the  sand, 
quite  as  nude  and  unashamed  as  our  much 
abused  first  parents  before  the  apple  ripened. 

"Bismarck — how  far?"  I  shouted,  standing 
up  in  the  boat. 

The  buck  arose  in  all  his  unclothed  dignity, 
raised  his  two  hands,  shut  and  opened  them 
seven  times,  after  which  he  lowered  one  arm, 
and  again  opened  and  shut  a  hand.  Then 
with  a  spear-like  thrust  of  the  arm  toward  the 
southeast,  he  stiffened  the  index  finger  in  the 
direction  of  Bismarck.  He  meant  "seventy- 
five  miles  as  the  crow  flies."  As  near  as  I 
could  figure  it  out  afterward,  he  was  doubt- 
less correct. 


292  The  River  and  I 

At  noon  the  next  day  we  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  Knife  River,  near  which  stood  the 
Mandan  village  made  famous  by  Lewis  and 
Clark  as  their  winter  quarters.  Fort  Clark 
also  stood  here.  Nothing  remains  of  the 
Fort  but  the  name  and  a  few  slight  indenta- 
tions in  the  ground.  A  modern  steamboat 
town,  Deapolis,  occupies  the  site  of  the  old 
post.  Across  the  river  there  are  still  to  be 
seen  the  remains  of  trenches.  A  farmer 
pointed  them  out  to  us  as  all  that  remains  of 
the  winter  camp  of  the  great  explorers. 

In  the  late  evening  we  passed  Washburn, 
the  "steamboat  centre"  of  the  upper  river, 
fifty  water  miles  from  Bismarck.  It  made  a 
very  pretty  appearance  with  its  neat  houses 
climbing  the  hillside.  Along  the  water  front, 
under  the  elevators,  a  half-dozen  steamboats 
of  the  good  old-fashioned  type,  lay  waiting 
for  their  cargoes.  Two  more  boats  were 
building  on  the  ways. 

Night  caught  us  some  five  miles  below  the 
town,  and,  wrapping  ourselves  in  our  blankets, 
we  set  to  drifting.  I  went  on  watch  and  the 
Kid   rolled   up   forward   and   went   to   sleep. 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      295 

After  sixteen  hours  of  rowing  in  the  wind,  it 
is  a  difficult  matter  to  keep  awake.  The  night 
was  very  calm;  the  quiet  waters  crooned 
sleepily  about  the  boat.  I  set  myself  the 
task  of  watching  the  new  moon  dip  toward 
the  dim  hills ;  I  intended  to  keep  myself  awake 
in  that  manner.  The  moon  seemed  to  have 
stuck.  Slowly  I  passed  into  an  impossible 
world,  in  which,  with  drowsy  will,  I  struggled 
against  an  exasperating  moon  that  had  some- 
how gotten  itself  tangled  in  star-sheen  and 
could  n't  go  down. 

I  awoke  with  a  start.  My  head  was  hang- 
ing over  the  gunwale — the  dawn  was  breaking 
through  the  night  wall.  A  chill  wind  was 
rolling  breakers  upon  us,  and  we  were  fast 
upon  a  bar.  I  awakened  the  Kid  and  we  put 
off.  We  had  no  idea  of  the  distance  covered 
while  sleeping.  It  must  have  been  at  least 
twenty  miles,  for,  against  a  heavy  wind,  we 
reached  Bismarck  at  one  o'clock. 

We  had  covered  about  three  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  in  six  days,  but  we  had  paid  well 
for  every  mile.  As  we  passed  under  the 
Bismarck  bridge,  we  confessed  that  we  were 


296  The  River  and  I 

thoroughly  fagged.  It  was  the  thought  of 
the  engine  awaiting  us  at  this  town  that  had 
kept  us  from  confessing  weariness  before. 

I  landed  and  made  for  the  express  office 
three  miles  away.  A  half-hour  later  I  stood, 
covered  with  humility  and  perspiration,  in 
the  awful  presence  of  the  expressman,  who 
regarded  me  with  that  lofty  "God-and-I"  air, 
characteristic  of  some  emperors  and  almost 
all  railroad  officials.  I  stated  to  the  august 
personage  that  I  was  looking  for  an  engine 
shipped  to  me  by  express. 

It  seems  that  my  statement  was  insulting. 
The  man  snarled  and  shook  his  head.  I  have 
since  thought  that  he  was  the  owner  of  the 
Northern  Pacific  system  in  disguise.  I  sug- 
gested that  the  personage  might  look  about. 
The  personage  couldn't  stoop  to  that;  but  a 
clerk  who  overheard  my  insulting  remark  (he 
had  not  yet  become  the  owner  of  a  vast  trans- 
portation system)  condescended  to  make  a 
desultory  search.  He  succeeded  in  digging 
up  a  spark-coil — and  that  is  all  I  ever  saw  of 
the  engine. 

During  my  waiting  at  Bismarck,  I  had  a 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      299 

talk  with  Captain  Baker,  manager  of  the 
Benton  Packet  Line.  We  agreed  in  regard 
to  the  Government's  neglect  of  duty  toward 
the  country's  most  important  natural  thor- 
oughfare, the  Missouri  River.  Above  Sioux 
City,  the  Government  operates  a  snag-boat, 
the  Mandan,  at  an  expense  ridiculously  dis- 
proportionate to  its  usefulness.  The  Mandan 
is  little  more  than  an  excursion  boat  main- 
tained for  a  few  who  are  paid  for  indulging  in 
the  excursions.  A  crew  of  several  hundred 
men  with  shovels,  picks,  and  dynamite,  could 
do  more  good  during  one  low  water  season 
than  such  boats  could  do  during  their  entire 
existence. 

The  value  of  the  great  river  as  an  avenue 
of  commerce  is  steadily  increasing;  and  those 
who  discourage  the  idea  of  "reopening" 
navigation  of  the  river,  are  either  railroad 
men  or  persons  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
geography  of  the  Northwest.  Captain  Marsh 
would  say,  "Reopen  navigation?  I  've  sailed 
the  river  sixty  years,  and  in  that  time  navi- 
gation has  not  ceased." 

Rocks  could  and  should  be  removed  from 


300  The  River  and  I 

the  various  rapids,  and  the  banks  at  certain 
points  should  be  protected  against  further 
cutting.  A  natural  canal,  extending  from 
New  Orleans  in  the  South  and  Cincinnati  in 
the  East  to  the  Rockies  in  the  Northwest,  is 
not  to  be  neglected  long  by  an  intelligent 
Government. 

As  a  .slow  freight  thoroughfare,  this  vast 
natural  system  of  waterways  is  unequalled 
on  the  globe.  Within  another  generation, 
doubtless,  this  all-but-forgotten  fact  will  be 
generally  rediscovered. 

Having  waited  four  days  for  the  engine, 
we  put  off  again  with  oars.     It  was  near  sun- 
down   when    we    started,    hungry  for   those 
thousand    miles    that    remained.     When    we 
had  pulled  in  to  the  landing  at  Bismarck,  we 
were  like  boxers  who  stagger  to  their  corners 
all  but  whipped.     But  we  had  breathed,  and 
were   ready   for   another  round.     A   kind   of 
impersonal   anger   at   the   failure   of   another 
hope  nerved  us;  and  this  new  fighting  spirit 
was  like  another  man  at  the  oars.     Many  of 
the   hard    days    that    followed    left    on    our 
memories  little  more  than  the  impress  of  a 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       303 

troubled  dream.  We  developed  a  sort  of 
contempt  for  our  old  enemy,  the  head  wind — 
that  tireless,  intangible  giant  that  lashed  us 
with  whips  of  sand,  drove  us  into  shallows, 
set  its  mighty  shoulders  against  our  prow, 
roared  with  laughter  at  us  when,  soaked  and 
weary,  we  walked  and  pushed  our  boat  for 
miles  at  a  time.  The  quitter  that  is  in  all 
men  more  or  less,  often  whispered  to  us  when 
we  were  weariest:  "Why  not  take  the  train? 
What  is  it  all  for?"  Well,  what  is  life  for? 
We  were  expressing  ourselves  out  there  on 
the  windy  river.  The  wind  said  we  could  n't, 
and  our  muscles  said  we  should  n't,  and  the 
snag-boat  captain  had  said  we  could  n't  get 
down — so  we  went  on.  We  were  now  in 
full  retreat — retreat  from  the  possibility  of 
quitting. 

During  the  first  night  out,  an  odd  circum- 
stance befell  us  that,  for  some  hours,  seemed 
likely  to  lose  us  our  boat.  As  usual,  we  set 
to  drifting  at  dark.  The  moon,  close  on  its 
half,  was  flying,  pale  and  frightened,  through 
scudding  clouds.  However,  the  wind  blew 
high,  and  the  surface  of  the  water  was   un- 


304  The  River  and  I 

ruffled.  There  could  be  nothing  more  eerie 
than  a  night  of  drifting  on  the  Missouri,  with 
a  ghastly  moon  dodging  in  and  out  among 
the  clouds.  The  strange  glimmer,  peculiar 
to  the  surface  of  the  tawny  river  at  night, 
gives  it  a  forbidding  aspect,  and  you  seem 
surrounded  by  a  murmuring  immensity. 

We  were,  presumably,  drifting  into  a  great 
sandy  bend,  for  we  heard  the  constant  boom- 
ing of  falling  sand  ahead.  It  was  impossible 
to  trace  the  channel,  so  we  swung  idly  about 
with  the  current.  Suddenly,  we  stopped. 
Our  usual  proceeding  in  such  cases  was  to 
leap  out  and  push  the  boat  off.  That  night, 
fortunately,  we  were  chilly,  and  did  not 
fancy  a  midnight  ducking.  Each  taking  an 
oar,  we  thrust  at  the  bar.  The  oars  went 
down  to  the  grip  in  quicksand.  Had  we 
leaped  out  as  usual,  there  would  have  been 
two  burials  that  night  without  the  customary 
singing. 

We  rocked  the  boat  without  result.  We 
were  trapped;  so  we  smoked  awhile,  thought 
about  the  matter,  and  decided  to  go  to  bed. 
In  the  morning  we  would  fasten  on  our  cork 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       307 

belts  and  reach  shore — perhaps.  Having 
reached  shore,  we  would  find  a  stray  skirl  and 
go  on.  But  the  Atom  II  seemed  booked  for 
a  long  wait  on  that  quicksand  bar. 

During  the  night  a  violent  shaking  of  the 
boat  awakened  us.  A  heavy  wind  was  blow- 
ing, and  the  prow  of  the  boat  was  swinging 
about.  It  soon  stopped  with  a  chug.  We 
stood  up  and  rocked  the  boat  vigorously.  It 
broke  loose  again,  and  swung  half-way  around. 
Continuing  this  for  a  half-hour,  we  finally 
drifted  into  deep  water. 

The  next  day  we  passed  Cannon  Ball  River, 
and  reached  Standing  Rock  Agency  in  the 
late  evening.  Sitting  Bull  is  buried  there. 
After  a  late  supper,  we  went  in  search  of  his 
grave.  We  found  it  after  much  lighting  of 
matches  at  headstones,  in  a  weed-grown 
corner  of  the  Agency  burying-ground.  A 
slab  of  wood,  painted  white,  bears  the  follow- 
ing inscription  in  black:  "In  Memory  of 
Sitting  Bull.     Died  Dec.  15,  1890." 

Perched  upon  the  ill-kept  grave,  we  smoked 
for  an  hour  under  the  flying  moon.  A  dog 
howled  somewhere  off  in  the  gloomy  waste. 


308  The  River  and  I 

That  night  the  Erinnyes,  in  the  form  of  a 
swarm  of  mosquitoes,  attacked  us  lying  in 
our  boat.  The  weary  Kid  rolled  and  swore 
till  dawn,  when  a  light  wind  sprang  up  astern. 
We  hoisted  our  sail,  and  for  one  whole  day 
cruised  merrily,  making  sixty  miles  by  sunset. 
This  took  us  to  the  town  of  Mobridge. 

I  was  charmed  with  the  novelty  of  driving 
our  old  enemy  in  harness.  So,  letting  the 
Kid  go  to  sleep  forward  under  the  sail,  I 
cruised  on  into  the  night.  The  wind  had 
fallen  somewhat,  but  it  kept  the  canvas  filled. 
The  crooning  of  the  water,  the  rustling  of  the 
sail,  the  thin  voices  of  bugs  on  shore,  and  the 
guttural  song  of  the  frogs,  shocking  the  gen- 
eral quiet — these  sounds  only  intensified  the 
weird  calm  of  the  night.  The  sky  was  cloud- 
less, and  the  moon  shone  so  brightly  that  I 
wrote  my  day's  notes  by  its  glow. 

The  winking  lights  of  Mobridge  slowly 
dropped  astern  and  faded  into  the  glimmering 
mist. 


Lonely  seamen  all  the  night 
Sail  astonished  amid  stars. 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      311 

The  remembered  lines  gave  me  the  divine 
itch  for  quoting  verses.  I  did  so,  until  the 
poor  tired  Kid  swore  drowsily  in  his  sleep 
under  the  mast.  The  air  was  of  that  invig- 
orating coolness  that  makes  you  think  of 
cider  in  its  sociable  stage  of  incipient  snappi- 
ness.  Sleepy  dogs  bayed  far  away.  Lone 
trees  approached  me,  the  motion  seeming  to 
belong  to  them  rather  than  to  me,  and  drifted 
slowly  past — austere  spectral  figures.  Some- 
where about  midnight  I  fell  asleep  and  was 
awakened  by  a  napping  sail  and  a  groaning 
mast,  to  find  myself  sprawling  over  the  wheel. 
The  wind  had  changed;  it  was  once  more 
blowing  up-stream,  and  a  drizzling  rain 
was  driving  through  the  gloom.  During 
my  sleep  the  boat  had  gone  ashore.  I 
moored  her  to  a  drift  log,  lowered  sail,  flung 
a  tarp  over  us,  and  went  to  sleep  again. 
And  the  morning  came — blanketed  with 
gray  oozing  fog.  The  greater  part  of  that 
day  we  rowed  on  in  the  rain  without  a 
covering.  In  the  evening  we  reached  Forest 
City,  an  odd  little  old  town,  looking  wist- 
fully   across    stream    at    the    youthful    red 


312  The  River  and  I 

and  white  government  buildings  of  the  Chey- 
enne Agency. 

Despite  its  name,  this  town  is  utterly  tree- 
less! I  once  knew  a  particularly  awkward, 
homely,  and  freckled  young  lady  named 
"Lily."  The  circumstance  always  seemed 
grimly  humorous  to  me,  and  I  remembered  it 
as  we  strolled  through  the  town  that  could  n't 
live  up  to  its  name. 

We  were  ravenously  hungry,  and  as  soon  as 
possible  we  got  our  feet  under  the  table  of  the 
town's  dingy  restaurant.  A  long,  lean  man 
came  to  take  our  orders.  He  was  a  walking 
picture  of  that  condition  known  to  patent 
medicine  as  "before  taking."  I  looked  for 
the  fat,  cheerful  person  who  should  illustrate 
the  effect  of  eating  at  that  place,  but  in  vain. 
When  the  lean  man  reappeared  with  the  two 
orders  carefully  tucked  away  in  the  palms  of 
his  bony  hands,  I  thought  I  grasped  the  eti- 
ology of  his  thinness.  It  was  indeed  a  frugal 
repast.     We  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"Please  consider  us  four  hearty  men,  if  you 
will,"  I  said  kindly;  "and  bring  two  more 
meals."     The  man  obeyed.     My  third  order, 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone       315 

it  seems,  met  objections  from  the  cook.  The 
lean  man,  after  a  half  audible  colloquy  with 
the  presiding  spirit  of  the  kitchen,  reported 
with  a  whipped  expression  that  the  house  was 
"all  out  of  grub."  I  regretted  the  matter 
very  much,  as  I  had  looked  forward  to  a  long, 
unbroken  series  of  meals  that  evening. 

Setting  out  at  moonrise,  just  after  sunset, 
we  reached  Pascal  Island,  fifteen  miles  below, 
before  sleep  came  upon  us  in  a  manner  not  to 
be  resisted.  All  night  coyotes  yelped  from  the 
hilltops  about  us,  recounting  their  imme- 
morial sorrows  to  the  wandering  moon — a  sort 
of  Hecate  worship. 

At  sunset  of  the  fifth  day  from  Bismarck, 
we  pulled  in  at  Pierre.  Although  I  had  never 
been  there  before,  Carthage  was  not  more  hos- 
pitable to  storm-tossed  JEneas  than  Pierre  to 
the  weather-beaten  crew  of  the  Atom.  At  a 
reception  given  us  by  Mr.  Doane  Robinson, 
secretary  of  the  State  Historical  Society,  I  felt 
again  the  warmth  of  the  great  heart  of  the 
West. 

During  the  first  night  out  of  Pierre,  the  Kid, 
having  stood  his  watch,  called  me  at   about 


316  The  River  and  I 

one  o'clock.  The  moon  was  sailing  high.  I 
grasped  the  oars  and  fell  to  rowing  with  a  res- 
olute swing,  meaning,  in  the  shortest  possible 
time,  to  wear  off  the  disagreeable  stupor  inci- 
dent to  arising  at  that  time  of  night.  I  had 
been  rowing  some  time  when  I  noted  a  tree  on 
the  bank  near  which  the  current  ran.  Still 
drowsy,  I  turned  my  head  away  and  pulled 
with  a  will.  After  another  spell  of  energetic 
rowing,  I  looked  astern,  expecting  to  see  that 
tree  at  least  a  mile  behind.  There  was  no 
tree  in  sight,  and  yet  I  could  see  in  that  direc- 
tion with  sufficient  clearness  to  discern  the 
bulk  of  a  tree  if  any  were  there. 

"  I  am  rowing  to  beat  the  devil ! "  thought  I ; 
"that  tree  is  away  around  the  bend  already!" 
So  I  increased  the  speed  and  length  of  my 
stroke,  and  began  to  come  out  of  my  stupor. 
Some  time  later,  I  happened  to  look  behind  me. 
The  tree  in  question  was  about  three  hundred 
yards  ahead  of  the  boat!  I  had  been  rowing  up- 
stream for  at  least  a  half -hour  in  a  strenuous 
race  with  that  tree!  The  Kid,  aroused  by  my 
laughter,  asked  sleepily  what  in  thunder 
tickled  me.     I  told  him  I  had  merely  thought 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      319 

of  a  funny  story;  whereat  he  mumbled  some 
unintelligible  anathema,  and  lapsed  again  into 
a  snoring  state.  But  I  claim  the  distinction 
of  being  the  only  man  on  record  who  ever 
raced  a  half -hour  with  a  tree,  and  finished 
three  city  blocks  to  the  bad! 

The  next  day  we  rounded  the  great  loop,  in 
which  the  river  makes  a  detour  of  thirty  miles. 
Having  rowed  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  evening  only  two  or 
three  miles  from  a  point  we  had  reached  in  the 
morning. 

In  a  drizzling  rain  we  passed  Brule  A.gency. 
In  the  evening,  soppy  and  chilled,  we  were 
pulling  past  a  tumble-down  shanty  built  under 
the  bluffs,  when  a  man  stepped  from  the  door 
and  hailed  us.  We  pulled  in.  "You  fellers 
looks  like  you  needed  a  drink  of  booze,"  said 
the  man  as  we  stepped  ashore.  "  Well,  I  got  it 
for  sale,  and  it  ain't  no  harm  to  advertise!" 

This  strenuous  liquor  merchant  bore  about 
him  all  the  wretched  marks  of  the  stuff  he 
sold. 

"Have  your  wife  cook  us  two  meals,"  said  I, 
"and  I  '11  deal  with  you." 


320  The  River  and  I 

"Jump  in  my  boat,"  said  he.  I  got  in  his 
skiff,  wondering  what  his  whim  might  mean. 
After  several  strokes  of  the  oars,  he  pulled  a 
flask  from  his  pocket,  took  my  coin  and  rowed 
back  to  shore.  "Government  license,"  he 
explained;  "got  to  sell  thirty  feet  from  the 
bank."  "Poor  old  Government,"  thought  I; 
"they  beat  you  wherever  they  deal  with 
you! 

We  went  up  to  the  wretched  shanty,  built 
of  driftwood,  and  entered.  The  interior  was 
a  melee  of  washtubs,  rickety  chairs,  babies, 
and  flies.  The  woman  of  the  house  hung  out 
a  ragged  smile  upon  her  puckered  mouth, 
etched  at  the  lips  with  many  thin  lines  of 
worry,  and  aped  hospitality  in  a  manner  at 
once  pathetic  and  ridiculous.  A  little  girl, 
who  looked  fifty  or  five,  according  to  how 
you  observed  her,  dexterously  dodged  the  drip 
from  the  cracks  in  the  roof,  as  she  backed 
away  into  a  corner,  from  whence  she  regarded 
us  with  eyes  already  saddened  with  the  ache 
of  life. 

After  my   many   days   and   nights   in   the 
great   open,  fraternizing    with  the   stars   and 


' 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      323 

the  moon  and  the  sun  and  the  river,  it  gave 
me  a  heartache  to  have  the  old  bitter  human 
fact  thrust  upon  me  again.  "What  is  there 
left  here  to  live  for?"  thought  I.  And  just 
then  I  noted,  hanging  on  the  wall  where  the 
water  did  not  drip,  a  neatly  framed  marriage 
certificate.  This  was  the  one  attempt  at 
decoration. 

It  was  the  household's  'scutcheon  of  respec- 
tability. This  woman,  even  in  her  degrada- 
tion, true  to  the  noblest  instinct  of  her  sex, 
clung  to  this  holy  record  of  a  faded  glory. 

Two  days  later,  pushing  on  in  the  starlit 
night,  we  heard  ahead  the  sullen  boom  of 
waters  in  turmoil.  For  a  half -hour,  as  we 
proceeded,  the  sound  increased,  until  it 
seemed  close  under  our  prow.  We  knew 
there  was  no  cataract  in  the  entire  lower  por- 
tion of  the  river;  and  yet,  only  from  a  water- 
fall had  I  ever  heard  a  sound  like  that.  We 
pulled  for  the  shore,  and  went  to  bed  with 
the  sinister  booming  under  our  bow. 

Waking  in  the  gray  of  dawn,  we  found  our- 
selves at  the  mouth  of  the  Niobrara  River. 
Though  a  small    stream  compared  with  the 


324  The  River  and  I 

Missouri,  so  great  is  its  speed,  and  so  tre- 
mendous the  impact  of  its  flood,  that  the 
mightier,  but  less  impetuous  Missouri  is  driven 
back  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

Reaching  Springfield — twelve  miles  below — 
before  breakfast,  in  the  evening  we  lifted 
Yankton  out  of  a  cloud  of  flying  sand.  The 
next  day  Vermilion  and  Elk  Point  dropped 
behind;  and  then,  thirty  miles  of  the  two 
thousand  remained. 

In  the  weird  hour  just  before  the  first  faint 
streak  of  dawn  grows  out  of  the  dark,  we  were 
making  coffee — the  last  outdoor  coffee  of  the 
year.     Oh,  the  ambrosial  stuff! 

We  were  under  way  when  the  stars  paled. 
At  sunrise  the  smoke  of  Sioux  City  was  waving 
huge  ragged  arms  of  welcome  out  of  the  south- 
east. At  noon  we  landed.  We  had  rowed 
fourteen  hundred  miles  against  almost  con- 
tinual head  winds  in  a  month,  and  we  had 
finished  our  two  thousand  miles  in  two  months. 
It  was  hard  work.     And  yet 

The  clang  of  the  trolleys,  the  rumble  of  the 
drays,  the  rushing  of  the  people! 

I  prefer  the  drifting  of  the  stars,  the  wan- 


Down  from  the  Yellowstone      325 

dering  of  the  moon,  the  coming  and  going  of 
the  sun,  the  crooning  of  the  river,  the  shout 
of  the  big,  manly,  devil-may-care  winds,  the 
boom  of  the  diving  beaver  in  the  night. 

I  never  felt  at  home  in  a  town.  Up  river 
when  the  night  dropped  over  me,  somehow 
I  always  felt  comfortably,  kindly  housed. 
Towns,  after  all,  are  machines  to  facilitate 
getting  psychically  lost. 

When  I  started  for  the  head  of  navigation 
a  friend  asked  me  what  I  expected  to  find  on 
the  trip.     ' '  Some  more  of  myself, ' '  I  answered. 

And,  after  all,  that  is  the  Great  Discovery. 

THE  END 


American   W aterways 


The  Columbia  River 

Its  History — Its  Myths — Its  Scenery — Its  Commerce 

By  William  Denison  Lyman 

Professor  of  History  in  Whitman  College,  Walla  Walla,  Washington 

430  pages,  with  80  Illustrations  and  a  Map,      $3.50  net 

This  is  the  first  effort  to  present  a  book  distinctively  on  the  Columbia 
River.  It  is  the  intention  of  the  author  to  give  some  special  prominence 
to  Nelson  and  the  magnificent  lake  district  by  which  it  is  surrounded. 
As  the  joint  possession  of  the  United  States  and  British  Columbia,  and 
as  the  grandest  scenic  river  of  the  continent,  the  Columbia  is  worthy  of 
special  attention. 

American  Inland  Waterways 

Their  Relation  to  Railway  Transportation  and  to  the  National 
Welfare  ;   Their  Creation,  Restoration,  and  Maintenance 

By  Herbert  Quick 
262  pages,  with  80  Illustrations  and  a  Map.     53.50  net 

A  study  of  our  water  highways,  and  a  comparison  of  them  with  the 
like  channels  of  trade  and  travel  abroad.  This  book  covers  the  question 
of  waterways  in  well-nigh  all  their  aspects  —  their  importance  to  the  na- 
tion's welfare,  their  relations  to  the  railways,  their  creation,  restoration,  and 
maintenance.  The  bearing  of  forestry  upon  the  subject  in  question  is 
considered,  and  there  is  a  suggested  plan  for  a  continental  system  of 
waterways.     There  are  a  large  number  of  illustrations  of  the  first  interest. 

The  Mississippi  River 

And    Its     Wonderful    Valley    Twentyoseven     Hundred    and 

Seventyfive   Miles   from    Source    to  Sea 

By  Julius  Chambers 

Fellow  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society 
324  pages  with  80  Illustrations  and  Maps.     $3.50  net 

Lake  George  and  Lake  Champlain 

The  War  Trail  of  the  Mohawk  and  the  Battleground  of  France 

and  England  in  their  Contest  for  the  Control  of  North  America 

By  W.  Max  Reid 

Author  of  "  The  Mohawk  Valley,"  "  The  Story  of  Old  Fort  Johnson,"  etc. 

In  Preparation : 

The  Story  of  the  Chesapeake  By  Rmheiia  Moty  Bibb;™ 


m  eric  an    Waterways 


The  Romance  of   the  Colorado  River 

The  Story  of  its  Discover/  in  1  540,  with  an  account  of  the  Later 
Explorations,  and  with  Special  Reference  to  the  Voyages  of  Powell 
through  the  Line  of  the  Great  Canyons. 

By  Frederick  S.  Dellenbaugh 

Member  of  the  United  States  Colorado  River  Expedition  of  1871  and  1872 

435  pages,  with  200  Illustrations,  and  Frontispiece  in  Color,     S3.50  net 

"  His  scientific  training,  his  long  experience  in  this  region,  and  his  eye 
for  natural  scenery  enable  him  to  make  this  account  of  the  Colorado  River 
most  graphic  and  interesting.  No  other  book  equally  good  can  be  writ- 
ten for  many  years  to  come — not  until  our  knowledge  of  the  river  is 
greatly  enlarged." — The  Boston  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Dellenbaugh  writes  with  enthusiasm  and  balance  about  his 
chief,  and  of  the  canyon  with  a  fascination  that  make  him  disinclined  to 
leave  it,  and  brings  him  thirty  years  later  to  its  description  with  undimin- 
ished interest. — New  York  Tribune. 


The  Ohio  River 

A  COURSE  OF  EMPIRE 
By  Archer  B.  Hulbert 

Associate  Professor  of  American  History,  Marietta  College, 
Author  of  "  Historic  Highways  of  America,"  etc. 

390  pages,  with  100  Illustrations  and  a  Map.     53.50  net 

An  interesting  description  from  a  fresh  point  of  view  of  the  interna- 
tional struggle  which  ended  with  the  English  conquest  of  the  Ohio  Basin, 
and  includes  many  interesting  details  of  the  pioneer  movement  on  the  Ohio. 
The  most  widely  read  students  of  the  Ohio  Valley  will  find  a  unique  and 
unexpected  interest  in  Mr.  Hulbert's  chapters  dealing  with  the  Ohio  River 
in  the  Revolution,  the  rise  of  the  cities  of  Pittsburg,  Cincinnati,  and  Louis- 
ville, the  fighting  Virginians,  the  old-time  methods  of  navigation,  etc. 

"A  wonderfully  comprehensive  and  entirely  fascinating  book." — 
Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


American    Waterways 


Narragansett    Bay 

I:s  Historic  and  Romantic  Associations  and  Picturesque  Setting 

By  Edgar  Mayhew  Bacon 

Author  of  "  The  Hudson  River,"  "  Chronicles  of  Tarrytown,"  etc. 

340  pages,  with  50  Drawings  by  the  Author,  and  with  Numerous 
Photographs  and  a  Map.      S3. 50  net 

Impressed  by  the  important  and  singular  part  played  by  the  settlers 
of  Narragansett  in  the  development  of  American  ideas  and  ideals,  and 
strongly  attracted  by  the  romantic  tales  that  are  inwoven  with  the  warp 
of  history,  as  well  as  by  the  incomparable  setting  the  great  bay  affords  for 
such  a  subject,  the  author  offers  this  result  of  his  labor  as  a  contribution 
to  the  story  of  great  American  Waterways,  with  the  hope  that  his  readers 
may  be  imbued  with  somewhat  of  his  own  enthusiasm. 

"An  attractive  description  of  the  picturesque  part  of  Rhode  Island. 
Mr.  Bacon  dwells  on  the  natural  beauties,  the  legendary  and  historical  asso- 
ciations, rather  than  the  present  appearance  of  the  shores." — N.  Y.  Sun. 


The  Great  Lakes 

Vessels  That  Plough  Them,  Their  Owners,  Theii  Sailors,  and  Their  Cargoes  / 
together  with  A  Brief  History  of  Our  Inland  Seas 

By  James  Oliver  Curwood 
244  pages,  with   72  Illustrations  and  a  Map.     53,50  net 

This  profusely  illustrated  book,  as  entertaining  as  it  is  informing,  has 
the  twofold  advantage  of  being  written  by  a  man  who  knows  the  Lakes 
and  their  shores  as  well  as  what  has  been  written  about  them.  The  gen- 
eral reader  will  enjoy  the  romance  attaching  to  the  past  history  of  the 
Lakes  and  not  less  the  romance  of  the  present — the  story  of  the  great 
commercial  fleets  that  plough  our  inland  seas,  created  to  transport  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  and  the  metals  that  are  dug  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth.  To  the  business  man  who  has  interests  in  or  about  the  Lakes,  or 
to  the  prospective  investor  in  Great  Lakes  enterprises,  the  book  will  be 
found  suggestive.  Comparatively  little  has  been  written  of  these  fresh- 
water seas,  and  many  of  his  readers  will  be  amazed  at  the  wonderful 
story  which  :his  volume  tells. 


American   W aterways 


The  St.  Lawrence  River 

Historical — Legendary — Picturesque 

By  George  Waldo  Browne 

Author  of  "  Japan — the  Place  and  the  People,''  "  Paradise  of  the  Pacific,"  etc. 

385  pages,  with  100  Illustrations  and  a  Map.     S3  50  net 

While  the  St.  Lawrence  River  hae  been  the  scene  of  many  important 
events  connected  with  the  discovery  and  development  of  a  large  portion 
of  North  America,  no  attempt  has  heretofore  been  made  to  collect  and 
embody  in  one  volume  a  complete  and  comprehensive  narrative  of  this  great 
waterway.  This  is  not  denying  that  considerable  has  been  written  relating 
to  it,  but  the  various  offerings  have  been  scattered  through  many  volumes, 
and  most  of  these  have  become  inaccessible  to  the  general  reader. 

This  work  presents  in  a  consecutive  narrative  the  most  important 
historic  incidents  connected  with  the  river,  combined  with  descriptions  of 
some  of  its  most  picturesque  scenery  and  delightful  excursions  into  its 
legendary  lore.  In  selecting  the  hundred  illustrations  care  has  been  taken 
to  give  as  wide  a  scope  as  possible  to  the  views  belonging  to  the  river. 


The  Niagara  River 

By  Archer  Butler  Hulbert 

Piofessor  of  American  History,  Marietta  College;  author  of  "The  Ohio  River," 
"  Historic  Highways  of  America,"  etc. 

350  pages,  with  70  Illustrations  and  Maps,     S3.50  net 

Professor  Hulbert  tells  all  that  is  best  worth  recording  of  the  history 
of  the  river  which  gives  the  book  its  title,  and  of  its  commercial  present 
and  its  great  commercial  future.  An  immense  amount  of  carefully  ordered 
information  is  here  brought  together  into  a  most  entertaining  and  informing 
book.  No  mention  of  this  volume  can  be  quite  adequate  that  fails  to  take 
into  account  the  extraordinary  chapter  which  is  given  to  chronicling  the 
mad  achievements  of  that  company  of  dare-devil  bipeds  of  both  sexes  who 
for  decades  have  been  sweeping  over  the  Falls  in  barrels  and  other 
receptacles,  or  who  have  gone  dancing  their  dizzy  way  on  ropes  or  wires 
stretched  from  shore  to  shore  above  the  boiling,  leaping  water  beneath. 


Jlmerican     Waterways 


The  Hudson  River 

FROM  OCEAN  TO  SOURCE 

Historical  —  Legendary  —  Picturesque 

By  Edgar  Mayhew  Bacon 

Author  of  "  Chronicles  of  Tarrytown,"  "  Narrag.insett  Bay,"'  etc. 

600  Pages,  with  100  Illustrations,  including  a  Sectional  Map  of  the  Hudson 
River,     S3.50  net 

"  The  value  of  this  handsome  quarto  does  not  depend  solely  on 
the  attractiveness  with  which  Mr.  Bacon  has  invested  the  whole  subject, 
it  is  a  kind  of  footnote  to  the  more  conventional  histories,  because  it 
throws  light  upon  the  life  and  habits  of  the  earliest  settlers.  It  is  a  study 
of  Dutch  civilization  in  the  New  World,  severe  enough  in  intentions  to 
be  accurate,  but  easy  enough  in  temper  to  make  a  great  deal  of  humor, 
and  to  comment  upon  those  characteristic  customs  and  habits  which,  while 
they  escape  the  attention  of  the  formal  historian,  are  full  of  significance." 

Outlook. 


The  Connecticut  River 

AND  THE 

Valley  of  the  Connecticut 

THREE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  MILES  FROM  MOUNTAIN  TO  SEA 

Historical  and  Descriptive 

By  Edwin  Munroe  Bacon 

Author  of  "  Walks  and  Rides  in  the  Country  Round  About  Boston,"  etc. 

500  Pages,  with  100  Illustrations  and  a  Map.     $3,50  net 

From  ocean  to  source  every  mile  of  the  Connecticut  is  crowded  with 
reminders  of  the  early  explorers,  of  the  Indian  wars,  of  the  struggle  of  the 
Colonies,  and  of  the  quaint,  peaceful  village  existence  of  the  early  days  of 
the  Republic.  Beginning  with  the  Dutch  discovery,  Mr.  Bacon  traces 
the  interesting  movements  and  events  which  are  associated  with  this  chief 
river  of  New  England. 


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